


Dream of Spring

by JenniferH



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 'That's not me' was about gender inequality, All those scenes I wanted to see in s8 but didn't? I'm having fun writing those scenes, F/M, Flashbacks... there are lots of flashbacks, Gen, M/M, Oral Sex, Pirates, Stillbirth, blowjob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 82,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27332419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferH/pseuds/JenniferH
Summary: This story takes place after the final episode of "Game of Thrones." The idea is to stay true to the canon of both the show *and* the books. I have taken key book characters from GRRM's series in this story that were not in the show and modified their arcs to mesh with the television series (such as Aegon/Young Griff and Arianne of Dorne). I haven't retconned season 07 or 08, but I'm filling in the blanks, addressing a lot of things... Dany's actions, Tyrion's "stupidity," the change in appearances, the why or WTF?! that some felt, etc.There are many points of views (20 in all), flashbacks, going back and forth between the past and present, across different countries and regions, introducing some new characters,some familiar, some that were just name-checked in "A World of Ice and Fire" or in the book series, some that I created from scratch thanks to the West of Westeros story. The goal is to bring this journey's end to one where all at last can find happiness and peace, while Westeros too reaches a peace that will last hundreds of years. Full of twists and turns, battles and betrayals, love and loss, heartbreak and heat.While winter is here, we dream of spring.
Relationships: Aegon VI Targaryen/Sylva Santagar, Arianne Martell & Sylva Santagar, Arianne Martell/Harras Harlaw, Arya Stark & Bran Stark, Arya Stark & Gilly Tarly, Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Bronn & Tyrion Lannister, Davos Seaworth & Arya Stark, Davos Seaworth & Gendry Baratheon, Davos Seaworth & Gendry Waters, Gendry Baratheon & Gilly Tarly, Gendry Baratheon & Rolly Duckfield, Gilly Tarly/Samwell Tarly, Jon Snow & Aegon VI Targaryen, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Gendry Baratheon, Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen (Flashbacks), Jon Snow/Lynorah Mormont (OC), Jon Snow/Ygritte (Flashbacks), Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Sansa Stark & Bran Stark, Tormund Giantsbane & Jon Snow, Tyrion Lannister & Bran Stark, Tyrion Lannister & Gendry Baratheon, Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark, arya stark/gendry baratheon
Comments: 114
Kudos: 75





	1. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Prologue: Lyanna I

**Author's Note:**

> \- There are six parts, fifteen chapters to each part (with the exception of parts I and VI -- there is a prologue to the former and an epilogue to the latter, so technically those two have 16 chapters). After each part is posted, I'm going to take a month break while I tweak the next part. During that period, I welcome all suggestions, ideas. The outline of the entire story is done, however, minor alterations, scenes between characters, interactions, scenarios can be incorporated. While tweaking, I can possibly add any suggestions from readers that could work.  
> \- There are key book characters from GRRM's series in this story that were not in the show. If you are a book reader, you will recognize some of them as they were fairly significant characters; others were minor, mentioned only in a few scenes and/or featured in only one chapter. There are also a few that are just names I took from the _World of Ice and Fire_ who we know very little about that I used for my own design. For those characters who have significant story in GRRM's books, I have modified their arcs to mesh with the television series as much as possible. I've added the links from the _Song of Ice and Fire_ wiki for two specific book characters who are major players in the books (and in my series) who were not in the show for non-book readers.  
> [Aegon VI Targaryen](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Aegon_Targaryen_\(son_of_Rhaegar\)) | [Arianne Martell](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Arianne_Martell)  
> \- Lastly and importantly, I want to thank my beta-readers, Vickie and Inta, who take a look at each chapter and give me feedback and help with the grammar side of things. Thank you so much ladies!
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> * * *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How it all began.
> 
>  **Characters** : Lyanna Targaryen, Rhaegar Targaryen  
>  **Relationships** : Lyanna/Rhaegar
> 
> * * *

**THE GIRL WHO CHOSE**

**THE DAY OF** her wedding was nothing like it should have been with all of her family and loved ones around her. Robert had even promised that they could have the ceremony at Winterfell in the Godswood. However, Lyanna Stark did not wed at Winterfell. No one she loved surrounded her with well-wishes. No father, no mother, no brothers. It wasn't Maester Walys standing before the heart tree uniting her with the man that she would spend her life with. Instead, it was a man she had met only that day, High Septon Maynard of the Citadel. There was no heart tree at all.

And it wasn't Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End that she wed because it wasn't Robert Baratheon that she loved. He was not the man that she chose for herself. 

Lyanna married the Prince of Westeros, Rhaegar Targaryen himself. The beautiful man whose song had made her weep when she first saw him. The man who had chosen her when he won the Tourney at Harrenhall the year before and crowned her the Queen of love and beauty even over his wife. 

Looking out the window of the tower at the Red Mountains of Dorne, suffocating under the overwhelming heat, Lyanna sighed. A year ago, her husband had been wed to a princess of this land, the mother of his two children, Rhaenys and Aegon. But Rhaegar was not happy with Elia Martell, both of the children were weak and not likely to survive beyond their childhood and Elia could bear him no more. The future king of Westeros needed strong heirs. He needed a strong wife.

And Lyanna Stark needed a man who loved her unconditionally, and one she loved just as much. She refused to settle for anything less. Rhaegar loved her blindly, madly, passionately and had from the first and every day since. He had eyes only for her and would leave her bed for no other. 

Her betrothed, Robert Baratheon, would never, could never love one woman nor stay faithful to her. He already had an illegitimate daughter in the Vale. She had spoken to her dearest brother, Ned, about it. He loved Robert as if he were a sibling too, but he could not deny it. He tried, in vain, to persuade her that what had been done before their betrothal mattered not and that Robert loved her greatly. But when it came to love, Lyanna knew his friend better than he. 

"Love is sweet," she had told him, "but it cannot change a man's nature." 

She would be unhappy as Robert Baratheon's wife. The time she spent with Rhaegar, though, was full of joy. He had worked quickly to get his marriage to Elia annulled so that they could wed. Lyanna knew that she should have waited to lie with him, but she trusted him with her whole heart and her body as well.

The first time they were together, he was gentle and loving. It had hurt, when he had pierced her maidenhood, but he had held her in his arms so sweetly and swore it would be better the next time and even better the time after that. And it was, so much better. The pleasure she felt under the heat of the Dornish days and nights was unlike any she could ever have imagined. But it couldn't compare to the happiness she felt when Rhaegar returned one day after a week gone with an elderly Maester he introduced as a High Septon from the Citadel.

"Lyanna, my love, this is High Septon Maynard and he is here to marry us," he told her as his beautiful face spread into a smile that shone as radiant as his silver-gold hair. Squealing with happiness, she threw herself into his arms.

The following day, they stood in a wooded area before a still lake, and where the sun shone upon the water, its color matched the light blue of her gown. Rhaegar wore Targaryen black, striking against his pale hair. Above them were high dark branches, the verdant leaves protecting them from the bright sun, and beneath them was soft, green grass cushioning their movements. She missed her parents, her brothers, even silly Benjen who had made fun that she had wept over Rhaegar's beautiful song at the Harrenhall Tourney, but that Rhaegar was hers and she was his was all that mattered in her heart. There were no flowers, no decorations, but the wooded landscape surrounding them was glorious, the perfect setting for the happiest day of her life. Lyanna looked into Rhaegar's eyes, their voices blending in with the beauty of nature's sounds.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his, and he is mine from this day until the end of my days."

As they pledged their vows, High Septon Maynard joined their hands together with white ribbons, and Lyanna smiled as the connection between them came closer and closer to completion. As one they turned to face the High Septon, his words at last naming her Rhaegar's wife. A burst of joy filled her and in the next moment she was in his arms; everything else faded away. It was just she and him. His palm cupping her cheek, his lips on hers, his soft breath caressing her face. _I am his_ , she thought. _He is mine_.

When they made love as husband and wife that night, Lyanna knew that what she had suspected was true. She could feel it deep within her. She was with child. When she told him, he was as happy as she. Her joy was complete. The next morning when she rose, she began to pack, preparing to leave Dorne at last. Since she was now his princess, there was no reason she could not.

"No, Lyanna you must stay here." Rhaegar was adamant.

"We are wed. I'm expecting your child. Westeros will be happy that their Prince has a strong heir. My family must be going out of their minds missing me. Rhaegar, I know Robert. He has no doubt moved on to a dozen other women by now. I am not some great love of his." She laughed and returned to putting her clothes together.

He rushed to her and took the items from her hand. "My love…" His voice was low, agonized. "Lyanna…"

"What are you not telling me?" She folded her arms in front of her chest and faced him squarely. "Rhaegar?"

"Robert Baratheon has not forgotten you. Along with your brother, Eddard, and Jon Arryn, he declared war against the crown. For the past six moons, battles have raged across Westeros. It is believed that I kidnapped you. That I've been holding you captive," he winced, "I've been having my way with you, against your will."

Lyanna stepped back, her hand rising to her mouth in horror. "No, no. Rhaegar, no."

"I'm sorry. I couldn't tell you—" He moved to her and tried to take her in his arms, but she pulled away. 

"You couldn't tell me?!" she cried. "You could have. You just say the words, Rhaegar. You just tell me, and I would have left, I would have stopped it. I would have told the truth!"

"NO! If the world knew that you were with me of your own choice without vows, your reputation—"

"Damn my reputation! People have died! Westeros is at war! My brothers, people I love!" She turned away from him, bending over, her arms wrapped around her belly, whispering to herself. "What have I done? Gods, what have I done?"

"You fell in love." His voice was quiet, hoarse. "Lyanna, I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do."

"You could have—" She started to say softly but he cut her off, his voice just as low.

"It happened so quickly. Your father and brother, Brandon, went to King's Landing to confront my father. Lyanna," and something in his voice warned her that she would not like what he was about to tell her. "He had them both executed."

"No," Lyanna fell onto the bed, all of the air leaving her body. Sobs escaped her. She thought of Brandon, how he would muss her hair, tease her for her hoydenish ways, but always sticking up for her regardless. Her father appeared in her mind, but it hurt too much. It was too painful; she banished the image as agonizing cries wracked her body. 

She felt the mattress dip as Rhaegar sat next to her. He lay a comforting hand on her back and she curled up in his lap, sobbing. "I'm sorry, Lyanna. By the time I heard, it was too late. He called for the heads of Robert Baratheon, Ned Stark and Jon Arryn for treason. They refused, and instead raised their banners in revolt."

Lyanna raised her tear-streaked face. "Are they dead? Are my brothers, Robert, Jon, all dead because of me?"

"No." He took her face in his hands and tenderly tucked her hair behind her ears. "No, my love, they live still." He wiped her tears. "It's not your fault. It's not because of you. It's because of my father." He laughed brokenly. "The Mad King, they call him, and he’s proved himself so. He killed your father and brother. He escalated all of this. I’m so sorry. So godsdamned sorry." Leaning forward slightly, he kissed the crown of her head fervently. "You and I are just fools in love."

"But if we hadn't—"

"And if your brother hadn't confronted a mad king. And if the new Wardens of the North, Southlands and Vale hadn't raised their banners in revolt against a mad king. And if Ned hadn't suggested a betrothal between you and a man who could never make you happy. If… if… if. Don't blame yourself, Lyanna."

She nodded, but then rose to her feet in sudden determination. "Fine, but I can't just stay here when my family is in danger." 

Rhaegar rose to stand before her and placed his hand on her belly. "If you leave this place, your family will be in danger. Our family. Until Robert Baratheon is taken care of, our child is at risk from his fury. You must protect our child, Lyanna. Our Aegon."

Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks. She was born a Stark, but now she was a Targaryen and as much as she wanted to do all she could to help the family that had raised her, she had her unborn child to think of at this moment. 

Resting a hand over Rhaegar's own, she felt a connection surge between the three of them, herself, her husband and their son. They would have a son, just as sure as Rhaegar was, so was she. She knew Robert Baratheon well as she had told Rhaegar and while he might not love her as she had wished once upon a time, he did love her in his own way and if he had gone to war in her name, the second her child was born, Robert would kill him. He would never believe that she willingly lay with Rhaegar, no matter her words. And Ned would defend her. The Starks would defend her. The North would defend the Starks. 

If she returned now, it might stop the current battles raging across Westeros, but it would only start a new war between the North and the Southlands, destroying the friendship between the Starks and the Baratheons and breaking her dear brother's heart. Rhaegar was right. Until this rebellion was put down, she had to stay where she was to protect their child. Mayhaps everyone she cared for would come out of this alive. She could only hope for the best outcome. Lyanna could only hope that in reaching for her own happiness she hadn't doomed many more to lives of pain and misery, to death. 

She had made her choice. Taking a deep breath, Lyanna Targaryen nodded. She must live with it. 

"I will stay."

**—NEXT CHAPTER: THE LADY WHO LIVED—**


	2. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 01: Arya I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya reflects on her relationship past, present and future with Gendry. 
> 
> **Characters** : Arya Stark, Gendry Baratheon, Jon Snow, Davos Seaworth, Sandor Clegane  
>  **Relationships** : Arya/Gendry, (minor) Arya & Jon, Davos & Gendry, Arya & Sandor
> 
> * * *

**THE LADY WHO LIVED**

**THERE WAS A** patch of sunlight that made a perfect circle on her skin that was becoming more golden every day. It was streaming in through the porthole and had made its mark on her abdomen next to the wicked scar below her right breast. Gendry ran his tongue gently over the crooked seam and she sighed, her fingers trailing through his short locks.

Arya had yet to tell him how the Waif had sliced through her top and jerkin, then again before puncturing and twisting the knife in her side for good measure. She hadn't told him about Lady Crane and her perfect stitches that only lasted a few days before the Waif had tracked her down, killing the kind woman and nearly killing Arya herself. She hadn't told him that her needlework with thread hadn't improved much since her time under Septa Mordane all those years ago at Winterfell as the repair work she'd done to Lady Crane's handiwork testified.

Gendry's teeth grazed over the long-healed wound, sending a pleasurable shiver through her body. He didn't seem to mind that her skills as a lady weren't up to par. She had other skills. Her knee rose alongside his hip and her hand dug into his hair. With a sudden jerk, she flipped their positions so that she was astride him. A wide grin spread across his face as she bent to kiss his chest, her fingers trailing downward to take him in hand.

She had many skills; unladylike though they may be. Gendry definitely approved. He threw his head back with a groan as she teased him, kissing the soft flesh of his inner thigh. She may have been a maid when they first lie together at Winterfell before the Night King attacked, but in the days afterward, they found plenty of time to get to know one another as lovers.

  
**—FOUR MOONS BEFORE—**

"What if someone comes in?!" Gendry whispered in between hungry, frantic kisses even as he pulled at the belt around her waist.

"I don't care." They'd fucked enough by now that Arya had no need for the niceties. Not this time. She pulled at the ties and flap of his pants while he fumbled with her clothes. "Gendry, hurry up!" she moaned, already wet from their clumsy foreplay, as she stroked his hardening member.

Heeding her demand, he had her trousers pulled down in no time and had bent her over as he pushed into her from behind. Her hands clutched the dirty worktable, soot and rust and bits of splintered steel biting into her skin, but she didn't care. All she cared about was the feel of Gendry's breath hot on the back of her neck, the cool of the air on her belly as he lifted her top and palmed her breast. His fingers squeezed, pinching her nipple so deliciously. His other hand curved around her waist, dipping between her thighs and rubbing against her sweet, sweet spot just like she showed him as his cock slid in and out, hot and fast and hard… and yes, yes, Gods, fucking… "Fuck!"

He came just after her while she was still recovering from her high. It was… nice. So very nice. She looked over her shoulder to gaze at him and he was wearing that sappy expression on his face again. Like she was the only thing in the world.

It scared her because she wasn't. Because this couldn't mean anything. Because she still had her list. Because—he cut her thoughts off with a kiss. A sweet, soft kiss. She wished that he would stick his tongue in her mouth and make it about fucking. If he did that, she could justify the look on his face as the reaction to a good fuck. It's what the Black Pearl had told her. That the best courtesans could use fucking to make men believe they were in love.

Voices outside broke them apart and they hurriedly put their clothes together. "I told you," Gendry hissed, but Arya just rolled her eyes. This was the Gendry she was comfortable with. Stupid, worried about things that didn't matter. Who cares if anyone knew they were fucking? It had been less than a week ago that they had survived a battle against death itself.

"Ah, Gendry—Arya?" Her brother turned to his companion, the one they called the Onion Knight, confusion on his face, before looking back to her. "What are you doing here?"

For the first time in ages, she felt like the little girl Jon had given Needle to all those years ago and not a woman grown. Her composure, her self-assurance, and the quick wit that had been her companion steady and strong-fast for so long deserted her. She was at a loss, speechless.

"I—"

"She was here to talk about weapons, Your Grace—uh, I mean, milord." Gendry quickly spoke up and she wanted to kiss him, one of those sweet, soft kisses he was always giving her.

Jon looked from Arya to Gendry slowly, and then nodded. "Jon. Call me Jon." He smiled at Arya. "Of course you are." Jon looked to Gendry, "We'll catch up with you later." He turned to leave, his Hand following suit with a sharp eye trained on Gendry the whole while.

Stopping short before he left, Jon sent a wink Arya's way. "Don't take up too much of his time." He paused, offering up a grin. "Although, I don't think he'd mind." Casting a final look the blacksmith's way, this one considering, Jon walked out. Once her brother was gone, Davos pointed a stabbing finger, paired with a stern frown, at Gendry and then followed Jon away from the forge.

The two of them were silent for a few moments. Arya hefted herself up on the work bench. Gendry let out a deep sigh. He looked at her. She looked at him. "I think it's safe to say they knew I wasn't here to talk about weapons."

"Is that what you think?" Gendry retorted with a grimace, running a worrying hand through his dark, shorn hair. "Now what am I going to do?"

"Nothing. Jon is obviously fine with this." She smiled and leaning over slightly, ran her fingers across his shoulder, before tracing his jawline. "So…"

He turned to look at her. "What are you doing?" Jerking away, his blue eyes were wide, darting back and forth between her and the open doorway. "We just almost got caught by your brother. The former King of the North!"

She shrugged.

"Arya!"

"And now he's gone. And the forge is still empty and everyone else is drinking, eating, sleeping or fucking." She paused, a musing sigh escaping her. "You have the back room with that little bed all to yourself, don't you?" Without waiting for a response, Arya jumped down and sidled up close to him. Trailing her hand up Gendry's chest, she tilted her face to look at him, an eyebrow raised daringly. He stilled and nodded, wanting fighting with caution on his face.

He cast one last wary gaze to the emptiness around them before she tugged on the ties of his shirt. He looked back to her. She moistened her lips with her tongue, and her eyes were wide.

"Show me," she whispered.

  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**

"Arya!" She bent back slightly, one hand pressed against the bed beside his thigh, the other upon his belly as she rode him up and down. The circle of sun now perfectly shaped her left breast whenever flesh slapped flesh. His hands held tightly to her hips as he thrust up into her with a final burst of energy. She cried out his name just as he whispered hers, almost like a prayer. Collapsing onto his sweat slick chest, he slid out of her and she moved to his side.

Leaning over, she kissed him, a long, deep kiss, her tongue slowly enveloping his in a dance, their lips joining, parting as they breathed in one another. At last they pulled apart, Gendry gazed at her, his blue eyes shining, looking at her as if she were the only thing in the world. She ducked her head, breaking eye contact and dropped a quick kiss on his mouth. A shy giggle escaped her, the emotion too much. She looked back up at him.

Of course, his expression hadn't changed. She had to give him something. She wanted to give him something.

"I love fucking you, Lord Baratheon."

He grinned, those beautiful blue eyes smiling. "And I fucking love you, Lady Baratheon." And Lord Baratheon cupped the back of her head and gave her one of his sweet, loving kisses.

Damn him. Her heart broke and came back together all in an instant. As their kiss ended, all she could do was smile at him and his stupid, beautiful face, now lit by that circle of sunlight. Sometimes it hurt to look at him because she wanted to give so much more than she could.

Arya stood up and walked to the porthole. She heard him sigh behind her, but he said nothing. She was silent as well, still as she gazed out the window of their cabin. All she saw was the blue of the Western Sea. Blue just like his eyes. She could say that to him, but that wasn't her to say such things. He would laugh. It wasn't what he wanted to hear anyway. But still, she liked looking out of the porthole and seeing that beautiful blue because it was just like Gendry's eyes, even if that was something she'd never say.

She heard the bed shift and the floor creak slightly as he came up behind her. Brushing her hair away from the nape of her neck, he bent down and pressed a soft kiss there. "What are you thinking, Arry?" Gendry rested his chin on her shoulder and waited.

Arya didn't answer. She couldn't, because she didn't want to lie, but she didn't want to tell him the truth either, afraid that he might be hurt, even just a little bit, and she didn't want to be the one to cause even one more shade of pain to cloud the blue of those eyes again. So, she settled for a partial truth. "Look at the water. It's so calm."

"Hmm," he murmured against her skin, creating a slight tickle. "Peaceful."

Leaning back, she rested against his form. "I like it. I like the peace. I like that we can lie about in bed for hours together on days like this."

He chuckled. "A welcome change."

Arya tilted her head slightly and looked up at him, a grin on her face. "What, my lord, you don't miss the secret, hurried fucks in empty rooms all over Winterfell?"

"No." He was succinct in his response. Her raised brow made it clear she didn't quite believe him. He elaborated. "Never found that half as exciting as you seemed to, milady."

"Don't call me that." She said it automatically. Every time. A bite, sounding like true anger in her tone, but it wasn't. It was just a part of their history, who they were. No one else understood.

He laughed, as he did every time. Many didn't seem to understand that either.

Gendry continued on as if she hadn't spoken. "I was always afraid that your brother would walk in on us—"

"—Well, he did that one time."

"We had just finished up, thank the Gods, but remember when we were in the North Tower and—" he broke off when Arya began laughing. "It wasn't funny!" But he was smiling now.

"The look on your face," she giggled and turned around, facing him. "You were petrified. I thought you were going to shit yourself."

"My face? Did you see the look on his face?!" Arya rolled her eyes. "I *was* going to shit myself. Said he was gonna kill me."

  
**—FOUR MOONS BEFORE—**

She liked being in control. She liked being the one to decide to slow things down or speed up. And Gendry, well, Gendry just liked to watch her tits bounce as she rode him.

Leaning forward, she placed both hands against his chest, her cunt grinding against him in a circular movement slowly before she lifted herself slightly, easing up and down his hard cock. His fingers tightened on her hips and she knew that she would have a few light marks there. New ones that she would cherish as she did each and every one that her fair, easily bruised skin received from him. His hips thrust upward, silently begging for more, faster, harder but from his lips were only sighs and groans, her name muttered as if she were one of the Old Gods herself. As always, he let her take the lead.

Gendry straightened up as Arya slid back down, one hand trailing from his chest to nestle between her legs. She loved the delicious feel of his silken shaft brushing against her fingers as she caressed the nub hidden just beneath the dark curls at the juncture of her thighs while she fucked him. It felt so good. Gods, he felt so good.

"Gendry," she cried out, his name becoming her own prayer.

He was no longer holding her hips, instead her breasts were in his hands, caressing, groping, palming their weight with a fierce hunger and then he bent over, his mouth capturing a nipple, his tongue teasing the point. So good. So, so good. A breathy moan escaped her. Gendry bit down gently. And Arya lost control. Faster, harder. His hands were back on her hips, hard and tight, his fingers biting into her flesh with sweet pain. She was pulling at his hair, nails running down his shoulders, his back as the pressure inside of her built and built—

"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!"

She nearly screamed. Not because Sandor Clegane had walked in on her fucking Gendry but because fucking Gendry had just brought her the most exquisite pleasure imaginable.

Arya opened her eyes and by the look on his face, Gendry perhaps not so much. She'd never seen him look as scared in her life, and she had seen him facing death by fire-frightened rats in a bucket placed over his chest once. He was calm then in comparison.

"I said—"

"—For fuck's sake," She cut him off as she calmly lifted herself from Gendry and turned to face the oh, so intimidating Hound. The man actually shut his eyes rather than see her naked body. "We were just fucking." Arya stated plainly as she reached over and pulled on Gendry's shirt. It would cover enough of her so as to not offend the Hound and his sudden sense of decorum.

"I can fucking see that you little wolf-bitch." He retorted, and then warily half-opened one eye before fully looking at her covered figure and took a few loud, menacing steps forward.

"Don't call her that." Gendry suddenly said behind her, having found his voice. She looked over her shoulder at him. And his pants.

Moving even closer, Clegane stood mere inches in front of the both of them and glared down at Gendry, completely ignoring her small form in between. "Are you gonna stop me, you fucking little bastard? Just like your father, after all, aren't you? Sticking your cock into any cunt that catches your eye."

"Shut up." Arya's voice was quiet.

He ignored her and continued berating Gendry, comparing him to his drunken king whore of a father. Never mind that he didn't know Gendry at all. Never mind that Gendry was nothing like that. He had only been with three women before her, not counting the Red Bitch, and Gendry didn't, so neither did Arya. Someone as fine and handsome as Gendry and only three women all those years they'd been apart... he couldn't be any less like Robert Baratheon. But Gendry was silent. He just took the tirade.

"I said to shut up, Clegane. You don't know what you're talking about." Arya took a step forward and the Hound had to move back. She looked up at him, her gaze steely and hard.

"Oh, listen to you, the great slayer of the Night King.” Clegane hissed. "You may know death, but you don't know men." His voice was soft. "This cocksucker is using you. He's taking advantage of your history with him—"

"—If anyone is using anyone, I'm using him. You had your eyes closed like a little girl's but if you'd taken a look, you'd have seen his cock that I've been sucking is well worth taking advantage of. Now get the fuck out of here." She raised an eyebrow. "We're a little busy right now."

Clegane looked at her for a long moment and then shook his head in disgusted resignation. He turned to go but stopped at the door. He didn't turn to face them. He didn't say Gendry's name, but it was clear that was to whom he was speaking. "A boar killed your father. A shadow killed your uncle. A witch killed your niece. Honor killed your last uncle." He turned around once more and looked Gendry dead in the eye. "You hurt her, and a dog will kill you." And then he was gone.

The North Tower was quiet. Arya swallowed the tiny lump that had inexplicably formed in her throat. "From him that was practically poetry," she finally managed. And then she turned to look at Gendry. He looked like he was about to shit himself.

  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**

"I wouldn't have let him touch you. If he had, I would have killed him. I don't care that he... cared for me, in his own way. As much as he was capable of. I would have killed him." She reached up and laid a hand upon Gendry's cheek, her thumb caressing his jawline. "But he wouldn't have, you know?"

Gendry shook his head slightly. "No?" He reached out and took her other hand and began to walk them back towards the bed. "What if I had hurt you? Not meaning to. I never would... but I had before." Sitting down, he pulled her onto his lap.

Winding her arms around his shoulders, Arya leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth. And then another. Pulling back, she slowly opened her eyes. "And I hurt you. It happens. He wouldn't have touched you because he knew that would hurt me more. If anything happened to you..." She trailed off and kissed him again, this time with more urgency. As she kissed him, as she wrapped her arms ever more tightly around him, feeling his heartbeat against her breast she knew that if anything happened to him—

No, her mind screamed, not even willing to contemplate her life without him now. He was hers. She was his. And she would kill anyone who tried to take him away from her.

**—NEXT CHAPTER: THE RAVEN WHO WOULD BE COURAGEOUS—**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The basis of Arya and Gendry being married I absolutely believe was 100% there in season 08. I actually wrote a very long post detailing all of the reasons why I believe so. You can find it [here: The Gendrya Wedded Belief](https://www.reddit.com/r/GOT_TheUnbroken/comments/jqek5u/the_gendrya_wedded_belief_repost/).


	3. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 02: Bran I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran and Tyrion discuss what has been and what is to come.
> 
>  **Characters** : Bran Stark, Tyrion Lannister  
>  **Relationships** : Bran & Tyrion, (very minor) Tyrion/Sansa
> 
> * * *

** THE RAVEN WHO WOULD BE COURAGEOUS **

**IT WAS TYRION'S** idea. To replace the destroyed Iron Throne, the symbol of death that it was, with a Weirwood Tree. It now sat in the very spot where once had been a throne constructed out of hundreds of melted swords; it had been carved out of the dais and filled with earth. And in that rich soil, a Godswood tree from the North had been planted and when the Throne Room was rebuilt after Daenerys' destruction, three different windows were designed to shine down upon the Weirwood Tree of Brandon of the House Stark, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

With the Iron Throne gone, Bran had decided that he didn't need any throne considering his condition. Instead of one, he had only his chair that still had to be pushed on occasion by his Hand or any of the knights of his Kingsguard. Mostly, it was a task that was left to his manservant, Jessup, who was by his side more often than not. Another victim of Joffrey during his short reign. The man's tongue had been cut out because he'd told a bawdy joke about the young king's true parentage within his hearing. It was the last joke he'd ever told. Like others, Jessup had survived Drogon's attack because the Red Keep's dungeons were below ground. He hadn't seen the light of day in four years. Hadn't bathed in that long either. To say that Bran had his lifelong loyalty was one of the true certainties that could be accounted for. 

One other change in the great Throne Room of the Red Keep was that unlike previous rulers, banners bearing his House were not hanging behind him and across the columns for all to see. Instead, behind his tree there was draped a new banner of Westeros alongside three others that Bran had commissioned. The Westerosi banner showcased not only the eight major House sigils—Lannister, Baratheon, Arryn, Tully, Greyjoy, Martell, Trystane and Targaryen—but also the Faith of the Seven and the Old Gods. The display of the additional banners was intended as honor and appeasement.

He was looking at them against the ivory walls when he heard the familiar footfalls of Tyrion Lannister enter. He waited until his Hand reached the bottom of the dais, but remained quiet, letting Tyrion have the first word. He knew how much the learned lord enjoyed that. Especially since he wouldn't be getting the last one today. 

"It was Pod's idea. The name Trystane." Bran turned to face his Hand. He didn't know what he was talking about. Some things he preferred to wait to find out from Tyrion himself, knowing that he would eventually. It did make life more interesting. "In a way, it was Pod's idea, but of course he didn't realize that." 

Moving forward, Tyrion took the first two steps towards where the Iron Throne used to be and settled down on a stair. Bran didn't mind, and Tyrion knew that his king didn't.

"Explain," Bran prodded, and he felt a glimmer of amusement at the smile that crossed Tyrion's face. Yes, he was always so delighted when he could tell Bran something that he didn't know yet.

"Well, you see, Your Grace, Pod informed me that Bronn had been asking stories about any charming, dangerous noblemen who had risen to great heights." Tyrion sent a wry look Bran's way. "Naturally, not quite in those words. But you get the idea."

Bran nodded and then looked away, his eyes rolling up into his head for a moment and almost as if in the distance he heard Tyrion sigh. However, he was lost in the past, making the connection between Lord Bronn of Blackwater, his idea of a nobleman to admire, and the name Trystane. He blinked, his gaze retaining normalcy and glanced back at Tyrion. "Trystane Truefyre."

The smile was gone from Tyrion's face. "Yes," he said with a disgruntled note in his voice, and then grumbled, "and now you know the all of it." Rolling his eyes, he continued at Bran's lack of response. "Pod told him all about the story of Trystane Truefyre and Bronn found himself a name." He finished with an exaggerated flourish.

"Yes, I could see how Ser Trystane's story would appeal to him." Revisiting the memory that he'd just seen, he repeated the tale to Tyrion. "The natural son of Viserys I, king of the Seven Kingdoms for a brief time, he was knighted as Ser Trystane Fyre after Viserys was dethroned and beheaded. His advisor and eventual betrayer, Ser Perkin, hired hundreds of sellswords and knighted them if only they would swear fealty to King Trystane."

"So that is all a true story?" Tyrion asked.

Bran nodded. 

"You never know with the history books being written by the victors." Tyrion shrugged. "Ah well, there you have it. And now we have Lord Bronn Trystane of the Blackwater, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Reach. Sigil, red field with sword, dripping with black blood, and the Trystane words, 'What is Owed or Death To Yours' to show for it.'"

"In large part thanks to you," Bran pointed out smoothly.

"Ah, yes. But will the world thank me? Somehow, I think not." Tyrion shook his head and looked up at Bran with a worrying sigh. "Of course, I pointed out that some in Dorne might take exception to Bronn taking the name as his own after what happened to Prince Doran's son, another Trystane," he paused, his eyes widening. "Oh, and not to mention that it doesn't bring back the happiest memories for _me_ considering my niece—as I am reminded at every Small Council meeting..." Tyrion trailed off with a look from his king. 

Bran knew that Tyrion didn't understand why he appointed Ellaria Sand as his Master of War, but Bran had his reasons. With the upcoming conflict, they needed information and knowledge that not even Bran himself was privy to. 

Rising to his feet, Tyrion was silent a moment longer and then with a huff carried on about the Master of Coin with whom he shared the strangest of friendships. "Bronn just scoffed when I questioned his choice quite vehemently and said that no one remembered a boy wet behind the ears who got himself killed while he was still in swaddling clothes. As for Myrcella, what's another Lannister lost..." Anger and sadness, a twinge of both, danced in his voice. 

"As of yet, we've heard nothing from Dorne, and of course, _she_ doesn't care." Bran remained expressionless. Tyrion was always trying to get some, any, stark reaction out of him. It had yet to happen. It would likely never happen. But he was welcome to keep trying. Bran always welcomed the return of any bit of the essence of his former self, Brandon Stark, the boy that was loved by Eddard and Catelyn Stark. 

"Still, it hasn't been that long. They have been occupied with other matters." He shook his head, a touch of anger once more darkening his tone. "He holds an important position in our government now. He could have—he should have chosen a different name. Why you approved his choice, I don't know." 

"You said it yourself, Dorne is occupied with other matters." Bran stated as Tyrion sighed. "As well, I granted Lord Bronn the family name of Trystane for a reason of which you should approve."

"Oh?"

"Consider it a small reminder of the harm the Sand Snakes, daughters of Dorne, have caused. The North shouldn't be the only ones who remember."

Tyrion was silent, a bit of surprise lighting his features and then he chuckled. "You can take the boy out of the North, but you can't take the North out of the boy, I see."

Bran allowed himself a small smile at that. Tyrion looked again at the banner of Westeros, his gaze lingering on the sigil of the black-bloodied sword, and he shook his head. "From a rose to a bloody-stained sword. Trystane of Highgarden." He snorted in disgust, then sighed again, giving up on the lost cause. Careful consideration in his expression, he turned his attention to the rest of the design. 

"I do like the new Westerosi banner. The Seven Points of Light with the Godswood represented and arranged around all of the Great Houses." He allowed himself a grin. "Starting with Lannister of Casterly Rock." Tyrion sent a look of pride towards Bran and he understood that Tyrion simply couldn't help himself. All of his life, the youngest Lannister had been the unwanted child of the great Lord Tywin, the demon monkey, the disgrace of the Lannister legacy and here he was the last one standing, heir to it all, the Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Warden of the West, the holder of the venerable Lannister dynasty. Bran was quite sure that Tywin Lannister was spinning in his grave... and he knew that Tyrion rejoiced at the very thought of it. Because Tyrion had told him so on more than one occasion. 

His Hand finally stopped admiring the Lion and moved on to the Stag. "Baratheon of Storm's End." Tyrion glanced over at Bran. "Did you know that your good brother, the former Lord Paramount, saved my life once?" Bran shook his head.

"I did not."

Tyrion nodded. "He did. I'll tell you about it sometime." He grinned. "Do you know? It's always fun learning what you know and do not." Bran gave a slight nod, both acknowledging Tyrion's statement and agreeing that it was entertaining for him as well. Tyrion took a step as he continued naming the Houses. "Arryn of the Vale. Tully of Riverrun and hmmm. Targaryen of? Your Grace?" He turned to Bran. "Why did you commission this banner with the Targaryen sigil included?" 

Bran was quiet, and Tyrion let out a sigh of realization. "Your brother—cousin. Jon. Of course." Bran did not correct him as Tyrion took a step back and glanced to the left at the three other banners, quickly moving on from the subject of Jon Snow and Targaryens. "The Stark banner, the North. Sansa." Bran cocked his head just the slightest and looked a little more closely at his good brother. He detected a note of softness in his voice when he spoke his sister's name. His sister who also still happened to be Tyrion's wife. He felt like reminding him of such.

"Your wife."

Tyrion shot him a quick, startled look, his eyes wide, and then just as swiftly he looked away. He then did a very un-Tyrion-like thing. He stumbled over his words. "No, no, Sansa and I are not—not anymore. No."

Bran's lips curved into another smile, something he found himself doing more often than he would have expected. "You were married by the Seven. That marriage still stands in the eyes of the New Gods."

Once again, Tyrion was in a position Bran knew that he seldom found himself in. At a loss for words, his Hand looked away and turned his focus to the displayed banners. "One of The Iron Islands and then one of Dorne." He glanced back at the Westerosi banner where the Martell and Greyjoy sigils sat next to the six other Great Houses and then to Bran. "Featured twice. They have their own royalty, but not their own kingdoms." He shook his head. "Hanging separate banners will not appease them, not nearly enough. Especially in Dorne as…" He paused, moving off the dais and down the steps before turning to look at Bran once more. "Your Grace, I didn't come here to discuss the new banners, as lovely as they are."

Bran had been anticipating this, although he had enjoyed the unexpected conversation beforehand. "No."

"Your Grace, we received a raven–"

Bran could wait for Tyrion to tell him, but one of the things he liked about Tyrion was that he understood that Bran had a gift. He appreciated how that helped him do his job, and how it helped the Kingdom of Westeros and Planetos at large. So, therefore, he felt no need at pretense. "From Dorne. Yes. Prince Quentyn has died. There was a fire. He burned near to death, lay dying for three days."

"Foul play is suspected." 

This Bran had not known. He only knew the truth of what had actually happened. "No."

Tyrion paused, clearly not expecting that response. "According to the letter I've received from one of my… friends in Dorne, foul play is indeed what many among the Prince's retinue believe..." He trailed off when Bran looked unblinkingly at him.

"It was not foul play. Prince Quentyn died because his bedroom caught fire. He was reading some correspondence by candlelight and reached for a cup of wine and was not careful. His robe brushed against the candle. It was a highly flammable material and immediately burst into flame. The fire quickly spread to the silk curtains of his bed and bed sheets. By the time his guards arrived, it was too late to save him. Such things do happen accidentally. That is what happened here." Bran looked steadily at him. "It is interesting to know that there are those in Dorne who believe otherwise. Although, not surprising. Those who want to believe it was something else will readily do so." 

Bran reached up and placed a hand on the modest crown he wore, made from the bark of the fallen branches of a Weirwood tree, as if to steady himself before speaking again. He knew what had to be said. He knew what was to come. And there was enough of Brandon Stark left within him to know that these were not words that should be easily said. "It has begun."

"Your Grace?"

"The seeds of war. It has begun." He could see it all in his mind. Quentyn reading his treasonous letter. The fall-out from that and how many lives it would entangle before the death toll would inevitably rise.

Shaking his head, Tyrion had to ask. "Is there nothing that can be done?"

Despite knowing the truth of it already, Bran reached out to touch the Weirwood tree. He closed his eyes and what he saw confirmed everything. There were the conspirators meeting on Dragonstone planning treason. One wanted the Iron Throne that was no more. Another just wanted her child to rule where his father had. And those that were left just wanted freedom for their people. He saw his sister giving an impassioned speech defending him, defending the North with a promise to break the wheel before a band of brothers who fought for no one. There was a bloody battle in a field covered with snow, surrounded by trees and a long, winding river. In the aftermath, his sister with her husband and child by her side, whispering in the ear of one of many who underestimate her while she all but controls Westeros. His brother, able at last to put his sword down and with a name of his own. His sister and one of those conspirators walking together at peace. Finally, he saw an image of King's Landing, but not as it was now, but beautifully rebuilt, thriving and where the statue of Baelor once stood was now a statue of Bran the Brave, a much, much older King Bran I.

Bran opened his eyes. "No, nothing has changed. It must happen. The war to bring things full circle and give Westeros a peace that will last a century, perhaps longer, is coming. But in order to achieve that peace, war must come."

Tyrion stepped forward, his hands reaching forward as if grasping for comprehension. "Your Grace, I don't understand. If you can see that, why not do something now?"

With an inner sigh, Bran realized that although he could tell Tyrion his visions, they wouldn't explain the why to him. They wouldn't make sense because the surety, the sense, the absolute feeling of them could not be translated into words. He could only try and use the logic and reasoning of what was happening in the now and how they would play out in the near future. "Prince Quentyn was fomenting treason. He would have failed in his actions had he not died. Where he failed, others will succeed, bringing players together that need to join forces to help bring Westeros and its people, and their leaders to their rightful place so that a true peace can be forged. Right now, there is still too much unrest and distrust. Prince Quentyn's death was an accident, but his actions will bear fruit."

"If you say so." Tyrion said, but his tone, his eyes were decidedly unsure. Bran didn't mind, he knew that he had Tyrion's loyalty and that his Hand would do what was necessary of him.

"I do." A hint of a smile curved his lips as he sought to lighten the mood. "And as is so often in the case, a Stark must act."

It worked as he suspected it might. Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Of course. Gods forbid any major event happen in Westeros that doesn't involve the Starks of Winterfell." He cocked his head slightly. "I don't suppose it could be Sansa playing a key role this time. She appears to be the only one with any cunning or sense in that stubborn Stark head of hers." Bran raised a slight eyebrow, and Tyrion seemed to get the message, as if suddenly remembering that despite all that had happened to him, Bran was _still_ a Stark _and_ his king. He took a step back and added hastily, "Your Grace."

Bran waited before responding, letting Tyrion linger in unease for just a moment and then nodded. "Sansa will play her part."

Smiling tightly, Tyrion took another few steps back. "Of course, Your Grace. By your leave." He gave a small bow and was about to turn, when Bran spoke once more.

"As will you." Tyrion's eyes widened. "As will we all." His Hand was silent and then without further word, he turned and left the Throne Room. 

Bran surveyed the empty expanse before him. Soon it would be filled with supplicants, many would have true requests, but as always there would be those who would just want to gawk at Bran the Broken. He allowed himself a small smile. Sansa was trying to change that. A flash of the statue of himself years hence flickered in his mind and it wasn't "Bran the Broken" that accompanied the figure. 

So many twists and turns that would lead them there, he thought. Reaching out, he laid a hand upon his Weirwood tree and suddenly he was no longer sitting on the dais but was watching amongst a crowd of people in the Dragon's Throne Room years ago. The Mad King, crowned barely a year and at nineteen he wasn't mad yet, merely given to fits of anger when not given his way. The coin had not landed yet. At that age, he was known to be a charming man, generous, and as a Targaryen and a young ruler to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros what he wanted he would get. 

As Bran watched on, young Aerys II's eyes were focused on a young woman, golden of hair and shapely of form. A man escorted her, close in age, but bearing much gravitas, with hair the same shade and they both were adorned in the colors of the Lion. It was a young Tywin Lannister.

"My good friend, you have finally brought your lovely sister to the royal court." Aerys' voice boomed across the room and all in attendance turned to look at Lady Genna Lannister, fresh meat from which they could feast. Bran stepped out of the crowd and moved closer to the Iron Throne. He noted how the king's gaze roamed lasciviously over the young woman. It was clear to anyone with eyes that Aerys wanted to be the first to take a bite. Bran looked to the siblings.

Tywin's mouth had tightened just the slightest, a muscle twitching in his jaw, but he showed no other reaction to the obvious lust on his old friend's face. His old friend who was his new king and Tywin was his Hand, the youngest ever in the history of Westeros. He put forth a smile. Ever were his priorities in order for Tywin Lannister. Bran noted that Lady Genna appeared almost bored by the attention. And then she smiled, a sweet, welcoming smile before offering a low curtsy that revealed her deep décolletage. Bran looked to Aerys and as expected, his gaze dipped to the sight of the young woman's cleavage. He licked his lips.

And then a cry broke the scene in half and suddenly, Bran was standing in a bedchamber. Aerys was still the same young man, still sane, still wanting Lady Genna Lannister. However, her boredom and smile were gone. She sat upright in her bed, the ties of her nightdress undone, leaving her breasts bared to his gaze. The king stood before her, wearing only a robe lightly belted, his desire for her abundantly clear as his erection pushed aside the translucent silk curtains. 

Aerys set a candle on the table by her bed and slipped his robe off, standing nude before her. He put one knee on the bed, pushing the curtains aside. Genna scrambled back. 

"Your Grace, please…" she begged quietly. "I am a maiden still."

Aerys placed his other knee on the bed, reaching out, he gripped both sides of her pale nightdress and then tore it down the middle revealing her naked body before him. A tear slid down Genna's cheek. "Your Grace, please," she cried softly. "I am betrothed to another. I beg of you, my king."

"You beg your king? Do you not want to please your king? Would Lord Frey not be honored to know that his King has tasted his wife first, pleasured her, made sure that she was an innocent for him?"

Genna looked at Aerys, her green eyes wide and frightened. Bran could feel the turmoil and fear, confusion and conflict racing through her. If she screamed, guards would come. Her brother would come, and ultimately it would make no difference. Aerys would still have her. But it would make a difference, all of Westeros would see Lady Genna Lannister as a whore. She would be ruined. Her betrothed would not be pleased to know that his intended had been bedded by the king, even a man as dense as Eamonn Frey. And what this would do to Tywin's relationship with the king could be ruinous to the Lannisters. Bran could read all of this cunning in her green eyes and how quickly it raced through her mind in a flash. He wondered that he had never heard more of this Lannister; her intelligence and savvy was remarkable. 

As was her fortitude. She closed her eyes and lay back. "Yes, Your Grace." She submitted.

A door slammed, and laughter suddenly filled the air. Bran turned around and he was no longer in King's Landing. He caught his breath, surprise filling him. He was in the North. 

A young woman, younger than Arya was now was running through a Holdfast, but he didn't recognize it. The girl looked like a Stark, like his aunt Lyanna, like Arya. Her coloring, the brown hair, falling to her back in simple waves, a single braid amidst the strands, her wide grey eyes and angular face, gave her that appearance. She was leading a young man with pale hair outside and to a Godswood tree that was very familiar to Bran. He stood still in shock and ignored the girl and her companion for a moment as he at last realized where he was. Winterfell... before Winterfell was. He stepped closer to the tree, it was smaller, the red not as dark, but it was definitely the Weirwood tree that he knew so well. He looked above him and around, wondering just when he was. He turned back to the couple.

The man had captured his lady. "Marya, Marya, my darling Marya Stark … I will find you, always." Bran could hear an infinite amount of love when he spoke to her, when he said her name. It was how his father, Eddard Stark, had spoken to his lady wife when they thought they were unobserved. The emotion was deep and abiding always, coming through his rough, Northern tones. This man was a Southerner, and his voice had a sing-song quality to it, beautiful and melodious. It wasn't just his voice that was beautiful, so was the whole of him. His form, his face, and his hair that wasn't just pale, but rather silver, and his eyes were purple. He was a Targaryen. And the girl was indeed a Stark.

Maryra Stark. Bran closed his eyes, trying to see her, to find her on his family tree, but he could not. Of course, he realized, the family tree began with Brandon Stark. His namesake. Bran the Builder. The man who built Winterfell and Winterfell was not yet—his thoughts broke off when she moved closer to the man. When she laid her hand upon his chest in front of the heart tree. When she whispered his name before lifting her face up to receive his kiss.

"Aerion," is what she whispered. Bran placed his hand against the Weirwood Tree and a jolt ran through him, the shock of touching two Godswoods at the same time opened up an avalanche of knowledge of this man. He was Aerion Targaryen. He lived during the Century of Blood, and he was the father of Aegon the Conqueror.

A trumpet sounded, and Bran opened his eyes. He was in his empty Throne Room. 

He looked to the Weirwood tree. "A Stark and a Targaryen before the Conquest," he whispered to himself. He wanted to know more, but it would have to wait. It was time for supplications.

**—THE NEXT CHAPTER: THE PRINCESS IN THE MOUNTAINS—**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned in the original notes how I modified the arcs of book characters to mesh with the television series as much as possible. This is the first chapter where we see that. I combined the Prince of Dorne character that we saw at the Dragonpit with Prince Quentyn of Dorne from the books, I meshed the arc of the character from the books to fit into the current timeline and narrative of the series. As to not spoil the books, you can read [a summary of it here](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Quentyn_Martell).


	4. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 03: Arianne I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arianne Martell takes stock of her life as the only Martell left in Dorne just as an old friend returns.
> 
>  **Characters** : Arianne Martell, Sylva Santagar  
>  **Relationships** : Arianne & Sylva
> 
> * * *

** THE PRINCESS IN THE MOUNTAINS **

**ORCHIDS GREW IN** abundance outside the window of her bedchamber. They grew everywhere around Starfall. It was the thing that Arianne most loved about the ancestral castle. Ever since her father had all but banished her to the Torentine island in the Western Red Mountains of Dorne after her failed political play, she had grown to despise much of the beauty of Starfall. Yet she still loved the orchids. 

She had taken to placing them about the castle, in nearly every room, refreshing them day after day. Her clothing, her hair, all of it carried their sweet, floral scent now. Even the correspondence that she received weekly preserved the trace of the purple flower. Such a delicate fragrance, it didn't pair well with the letter she held in her trembling hand at the moment. 

Another brother dead. _Quentyn_ , she thought. _I am alone_. First they had lost Oberyn—the uncle she had loved so—to his own hubris and passion. Unlike Ellaria and his daughters, she didn't blame anyone but the Red Viper himself for his death. His own choices led to his end. But her father and her baby brother, Trystane, that was a different tale. Murdered both had been, and murder committed by those that Arianne loved. Even now, with so much time having passed, it was hard to reconcile her love for the Sand Snakes—so like the sisters that she had never had—with the anger that bordered on hate she felt whenever she thought of Trystane, so young, so innocent, taken too soon. For no reason, other than revenge that held no meaning and for which he held no guilt.

And her father. Killed by Ellaria—

Arianne closed her eyes. She couldn't think of Prince Doran. She couldn't think of Ellaria Sand. She knew her pain over Oberyn's death. Knew that it had driven her near-mad with grief. Knew of what had become of her in the aftermath of her revenge on Cersei Lannister. Arianne knew that beyond her lover that Ellaria had lost much more than she had ever bargained for with her actions. His daughters. Her daughter. Anyone left who loved her in Dorne. 

Oberyn chose his own death. Ellaria chose to kill an innocent girl in response. Myrcella Baratheon. Arianne let out a soft chuckle devoid of mirth. "Baratheon," she muttered, her husky voice low in the quiet room. "Lannister more like it." She shook her head. A part of her felt the hypocrite as she had planned to use Myrcella herself for her own plans, but her intention had never been to harm the girl. The princess hadn't even known of Arianne's plot to put her on the Iron Throne, a plot that had been foiled in the infancy of its execution. Although not without the loss of life, friendships and freedom, including her own.

Thus, was the price of treason. As had Arianne learned. And Ellaria. And now Quentyn. 

A tangle of long, dark curls fell over her shoulder and obscured the words on the parchment in her hand, but she didn't need to see them to know what they said. She had read the letter enough to know the contents. Her brother was dead. And not written down, but in between the phrases, the careful language used by Maester Caleotte, Arianne also understood that when she finally returned to Sunspear there would be more to discover about just what the young Prince of Dorne had been doing.

The Maester was clever, despite his age. How old he was, Arianne had no idea, with his round face, unlined and smooth, but he had been with the Martell family for decades. A short man, mild and quiet, she had never taken much notice of him. She would have to now. Brushing the long length of curls behind her back, she studied the letter from him once more. Arianne wondered if he knew that she could read between the lines, that she grasped that something else was going on in the capital of Dorne at her brother's behest. And that it may have very well led to his death. 

With a sigh, she rose to her feet and folded the letter, tucking it into her bodice. Until she knew more, she could trust no one. At least no one here. She would be in Sunspear within the week. Her eyes drifted around the library. It was beautiful, as was all of the ancestral castle. Her gaze fell to the vase filled with her favorite flowers on the small table by the chair where she had just been sitting. Absently, Arianne reached out and picked up a fallen petal, a bright, rich purple hue. Feathering it between her fingers, she glanced about the room once more and let it fall to the ground as she walked out. It was time to leave this place.

She wouldn't miss Starfall, but she would miss the orchids.

  
**IT TOOK THREE** days to pack everything up and prepare the castle for no residency in its halls. Longer than Arianne would have initially liked, but as the sun fell on the third day, she was happy with the delay due to the arrival of an unexpected, but very welcome guest.

"Lady Estermont, what a wonderful surprise," Arianne rushed forward to greet her old friend with an exuberant hug and a kiss on both cheeks. "How I have missed you!" 

The voluptuous blonde heiress went frozen in her arms for a moment before seeming to melt into her embrace. Without a word, she began shaking, her head falling onto Arianne's shoulder and it was Arianne's turn to go still. Sylva, Spotted Sylva—called so because of the spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, although Arianne and their other close friends, Drey and Garin, insisted it was due to her inheriting Spottswood—in her youth was always smiling, filled with joy. This woman sobbing in her arms…

"Sylva? Sylva, sweet Sylva…" she crooned softly, waiting for her tears to subside. Arianne held her, all the while wondering what could have happened in the three years since her father had sent Sylva home as punishment for participating in the plot to make Myrcella Baratheon the queen of Westeros. Arianne knew that her friend had been betrothed and quickly wed to the elderly Lord Eldon Estermont, but surely the man couldn't have been that awful. Sylva was so sweet, but still strong-willed, she could have charmed and tamed any man.

"I'm sorry, princess. I didn't—" Sylva pulled away, wiping at her face, now blotchy and red. "I didn't know I would do that. I suppose seeing you..." She trailed off and reached out, grabbing hold of Arianne's hands. "Such warmth and love from you."

"Of course. It's been three years, but that can't erase a lifetime of friendship. And, Sylva, the time for courtesies has passed. Call me Arianne, please." Arianne shook her head. "Sylva… what happened? Come sit down." She led her to a red chaise and drew her to sit by her, their hands still clasped together. 

Sylva took a deep breath, then gave a slight shake of her head. She looked around. "It's beautiful here." Freeing her hands, she reached behind her and picked an orchid. "Your favorite. You must love this place."

"I hate it. I love the orchids, but I've grown to hate Starfall. It's been my punishment, stuck here, away from my family, from my father, my brother, the heart of my country while the rest of the kingdom is in turmoil. The undead rising, a broken man sitting on the Iron Throne that is no more. A Targaryen with dragons returning to Westeros, burning lords and capitals. A secret Targaryen who was a Stark all along. Not a prince, but a princess promised, they say, and bringing forth the dawn. The North its own kingdom. It's all madness. And the entire time I was stuck here at Starfall, no help to anyone." 

She closed her eyes, and then opened them, the dusky shade of them revealing her guilt. "I'm sorry. I'm being selfish. What of you? What is wrong, my dear friend? Did you lose people you loved in the war? Your father, your husband?"

Shaking her head, Sylva got to her feet. "No, it was nothing like that. The undead, the war, none of it ever got anywhere near Greenstone or Spottswood. The Princess of Winterfell, Arya Baratheon, she slayed the Night King before they could march upon the South."

"Baratheon? I thought she was a Stark.” Another thought struck her. “Wait, I thought the Baratheon line was extinct."

"She was a Stark then. And, yes, the Baratheon line was gone. That happened when Stannis Baratheon burned his daughter at the stake to ensure a victory but was killed in the battle that followed."

"So that was true?" Arianne couldn't help but ask, needing to know. She had heard of it, such a thing can never not be whispered about, but such a thing can never not be discounted for the horror it is.

"It is. My lord husband was one of King Stannis' bannermen and there when it happened."

"Was?"

"He's dead." Sylva turned away, hiding her expression, and her voice gave no indication of her feelings on the matter. "Not then. He stayed loyal to Stannis despite his action. Stayed to fight against the bastard-turned-lord Ramsey Bolton. They were defeated soundly despite the cruel sacrifice, but my lord husband survived and came home. King Stannis did not. The legitimate Baratheon line ended with him. Lord Eldon was at a loss. He had no liege lord. That was until the Dragon Queen legitimized Robert Baratheon's bastard. He had fought against the undead."

Sylva sat back down next to Arianne. "He was a blacksmith, made the weapons that defeated the undead, and she named him Lord of Storm's End. Lord Eldon was quite pleased. Met him when he found his way there. Said that he looked like King Robert when he defeated Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident. Said he would make a fine lord." She smiled without joy. "Eldon was quite disappointed when the new Lord gave up Storm's End to marry the Slayer of the Night King and leave Westeros. Arya Stark herself, the sister of the King of Westeros, and the Queen of the North, a princess two times over."

Sylva took a deep breath and then continued, her voice without inflection. "He was more than disappointed. Lord Eldon was most unhappy. 'To think,' he raged. 'My liege lord would have been the good brother of a king and a queen of two different kingdoms!' On and on he went." Sylva looked straight at Arianne. "And on and on the beatings went. I couldn't walk for a week. It was the worse it had ever been."

"Oh, Sylva."

"It had been a few bruises, some uncomfortable nights in the past. Nothing like this. But when the announcement came that Lord Gendry Baratheon had wed Princess Arya Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, the Bringer of the Dawn, the Slayer of the Night King, the Princess that was Promised, oh, Arianne, the songs that were written. They filled the Southlands in every tavern from dusk to dawn it seemed. The Stormlords were beside themselves with happiness. The bounty, the favors they could get from both the Kingdoms of Westeros and the North and then..."

"And then he gave up Storm's End."

"And the Wardenship. He gave up everything except his title and his name. He did it all when he wed Arya Stark. And then they left Westeros and with them went all of the promise, all of the rewards that every House in the Southlands had imagined they would receive. We found this all out when the new bastard turned lord arrived at Storm's End, this one legitimized by King Bran."

"Had he promised them anything? The first one, the one who had married the Stark princess?"

"I don't know. Maybe. As upset as they all were, I think he might have when he first arrived at Storm's End. Eldon hinted at such. He was certainly angrier than I had ever seen him when Lord Baratheon walked away from it all."

"And he took it out on you." It wasn't a question that Arianne asked. It was obvious from the tale that her friend had just told her.

Sylva nodded. 

"But you're here now." Again, it wasn't a question, but it could have been because Arianne knew there was more of her tale to come.

Sylva nodded again. 

"Sylva, what happened?" This time, Arianne did ask

Her friend was quiet. She looked down at her hands. A single teardrop fell upon her golden skin. Finally, she looked up at Arianne. "I received a letter from Garin's mother." 

Garin, one of their two other childhood companions who had been in on the plot to seat Myrcella on the Iron Throne. Closer to Arianne than even Sylva, Garin had been her milk-brother, and it had broken her heart when her father had sent him to Tyrosh as punishment. He was only supposed to be gone for two years, but it had been three and she hadn't heard from him in all that time. 

"What did she say? Has she heard from Garin? Is he finally coming home?" Arianne leaned forward, gripping Sylva's hands in her eagerness. To have not only Sylva, but Garin as well back in her life would be such a salve after the pain of losing every other Martell.

"She had two letters, one from Garin, and one from a friend of his," Sylva explained, her countenance expressionless. 

Arianne sat back. She once again noted this change in her friend. So merry and easy to read, Sylva had been in their youth, but now she was a woman in the full bloom of her life and, as much as Arianne was loathe to admit it, there was a hardness about her now. Whereas before there was only softness, she was stone at present. 

Steadying herself, Arianne asked the question that Sylva must have been waiting for. "What was in the letters?"

"Neither brought pleasant tidings."

"In these times, I don't find that terribly surprising." Arianne retorted tartly, done with the suspense. "What news, Sylva?"

"From his friend, he told of what had happened to Garin in Tyrosh. On his way home from a tavern, he was attacked by some cutthroats looking to line their pockets. Garin was killed." 

Arianne's eyes closed and she sent a brief prayer to the Seven. "May the Father judge you justly. May the Stranger guide you true." She swiped a tear away and raised her head to look at Sylva once again. "And the news from Garin himself?"

"It was about Drey." And Sylva's voice was like steel.

Rising to her feet, Arianne placed a hand on her stomach. She couldn't handle anymore death. First Quentyn, then Garin, and now Drey. The last of the five conspirators. Arys Oakheart, the bloody foolish Kingsguard sent to protect Myrcella had been so in love with Arianne that he'd gone along with her plan. When they'd been caught just outside the three-walled gates of Sunspear, he'd played the gallant knight and rushed forward to defend her dishonor and fell swiftly to his death leaving only four. With Garin gone, three. And now Drey, Andrey Dalt—who if not for being a silly, excitable boy would have been her one-time lover—dead. Dead because he was her friend. Dead because he trusted her. Dead because he believed in her dream in putting a woman on the throne. So now they were two.

But how? She cried to herself. She turned to Sylva. "How? I don't understand. He was in Norvos, in the service of my mother. He should have been perfectly safe. How could Drey have been murdered as well?" Arianne shook her head. "I don't—I don't understand."

Sylva rose and gently took Arianne's shoulders in her hands. The princess looked at her, anguish in her dark eyes. "No, you don't understand, Arianne. What Garin wrote in his letter was a horrible truth that he discovered. We always knew that someone among us had told your father our plan."

Nodding, Arianne's words belied her movement. "No, no."

"Yes. It was Drey."

Arianne pulled away from Sylva. "No, no, I refuse to believe that. I've known him almost my entire life. No, he would not. I would kno—"

"I confronted him. He did not deny the charge."

"You... He did not—" Arianne broke off and turned away. She walked to the window and looked out, her palms pressing into the ledge. Hard. She welcomed the pain of the wood biting into her flesh. 

"I sent a raven to Lady Mellario asking if Drey could be relieved of his service long enough to visit an old friend since the three years of his punishment had passed. The response was Drey's appearance himself. At first, I was just happy to see him. Someone I knew from my happier days, someone who while there Lord Eldon would cease his beatings."

Turning around, Arianne rested against the window, her heart once more going out to her friend. "Sylva…"

"But he did not. Foolish of him because Drey still had conspiracy in his blood. It seems that much like Dorne, poison is a popular method of death in the Free Cities and Drey had learned some new methods. He suggested such one to dispose of Lord Eldon."

"Did you do it?" 

Sylva shook her head. "No. I was too afraid." She laughed without joy. Arianne found herself suddenly, fervently missing the real sound of her friend's laughter. "I thought what if it didn't work? What if he recovered and suspected that I had anything to do with it? The beating after Gendry Baratheon renounced his Wardenship would be a kiss and a tumble in comparison. I couldn't risk it. But Drey…"

"Drey did."

Sylva nodded. "Drey did." 

"And what happened?"

"He died. My lord husband died. Our Maester thought his heart had given out." Sylva gave a sad smile. "That should have been the end of it, but Drey," she shook her head. "He was so stupid."

Arianne came forward and reached out, brushing aside Sylva's hair. "What?"

"He started talking about what we did. The four of us. Our plans. You, me, him… and Garin." 

Arianne's eyes widened. 

"So, I asked him. 'Was it you? Were you the one who told Prince Doran of our plans?' He didn't say anything, but he looked wary, confused. I told him that I had heard from someone that it was him. And Arianne, he laughed, and he said, 'What does it matter now? We've all been punished, and we're fine. The girl never would have been the queen. I was protecting Arianne. Yes, it was me.' I just looked at him and…" She trailed off and began to cry again, the stone woman gone.

"He said we were all fine, Arianne! Fine! I still wore the bruises and scars from the beatings I received from my disgusting, shrunken, old husband night after night for three years! You had been locked away in your gilded cage for three years! And Garin! Garin was dead! He had been murdered, Arianne! And that beautiful girl, Myrcella, was dead too! And so is Trystane! And your father and Tyene and Obara and Nym. And now Quentyn! Who's to say that all of them, every single one of them, wouldn't still be alive today if he had not betrayed us? The war as it played out, so many lives lost, may never have happened!" She laughed shrilly, tears streaming down her face. "But it's all fine because Drey is fine."

"Sylva, Sylva, Sylva," Arianne murmured, taking her into her arms once more.

She broke away and began pacing. "I just stared at him. In shock. In horror. And then I—I didn't even think about what I was doing, I just did it. I yelled for the guards. Drey jumped up, he began screaming my name. They came in and I told them—I was hysterical. I shouted that Drey had confessed that he had poisoned Lord Eldon. I told them to take him away."

Arianne's jaw dropped in shock. "Sylva—"

"He demanded a trial by combat and was granted one. He fought three days later against the new Lord Estermont, Aemon, Lord Eldon's son from his first marriage. He lost. It was a quick death. Clean even. Considering all the damage his act of betrayal caused, it was a kinder death than he likely deserved."

Arianne was speechless. She simply did not know how to respond. Drey was dead, but because he had betrayed them. And so, Sylva had betrayed him in kind. She closed her eyes. So much death. Too much. She opened them and looked at her friend. She was stone once more.

"Do you regret what you did?" She had to ask. Despite what Drey had done, he had still been one of their closest friends for much of their lives.

"Yes," the stone cracked a bit. "For a time, and then I went through his belongings. I found correspondence between him and a wealthy Norvosi merchant. He had come to Greenstone with a plan. To kill Lord Eldon. To woo me. To wed me. To use my connections to the Southlands and as a Santagar to take over Sunspear and rule as our Andal ancestors once did when they first came to Westeros, leaving you out in the cold."

"Gods." Arianne did not think his betrayal could run any deeper.

"Any regret I had came swiftly to an end."

Arianne nodded, and the tears that she would have shed for Andrey Dalt dried up before they could spill. Sylva coming to her now before she left for Sunspear was invaluable. She stepped closer to her friend. "I need you. I am going to the capital and I know now, more than ever, that I can't trust anyone there. But I do need someone upon whom I can rely. Someone who I do trust. Completely. Will you come with me?"

Sylva nodded. "Yes. I would sooner die than leave you alone with that potential pit of vipers." She smiled. A real smile. "And I have nowhere else to go. Spottswood means nothing to me as long as my father is there. If I never see him again, it will be too soon. He wed me to that monster."

Arianne drew her into her arms. "As long as I have any power, you will never lay eyes upon him again. Or anyone who has ever done you harm. It will be just you and I, looking out for each other."

Tension that Arianne had not even realized was there fell from Sylva's frame and suddenly there was a lightness to her friend, bringing to mind the girl with which she had spent so many wonderful hours, days, years. 

"Thank you." She smiled, a quiet happiness filling her voice. "I am grateful to you and that at last I am home once more." Her eyes flitted close briefly before she met Arianne's warm gaze once more. "In Dorne." 

Smiling back, Arianne pulled away and grabbed the one bottle of wine that had not been packed away yet. Uncorking the Dornish red, she held it aloft. "To Dorne!" she cried before taking a deep swallow. 

The two women grinned at one another and as if reading the other's mind they said the words once more. "To Dorne." They spoke softly, but there was resolve in their voice, steel gloved in the colorful shades of Dorne itself and it would not be penetrated.

**—THE NEXT CHAPTER: THE FLEA BOTTOM CAPTAIN—**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned in the original notes how I modified the arcs of book characters to mesh with the television series as much as possible. I did this with Arianne and her band of conspirators.


	5. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 04: Tavier I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The captain of Arya's ship reflects on, interacts with and eavesdrops on people aboard the ship.
> 
>  **Characters** : Captain Tavier Fyste, Arya Stark, Davos Seaworth, Gendry Baratheon, Carpen Weilldfoot, Gilly Tarly  
>  **Relationships** : Arya/Gendry, Gendry & Davos
> 
> * * *

** THE FLEA BOTTOM CAPTAIN **

**THE WATERS WERE** calm with gentle waves lapping against the hull of the ship. Thus far in their voyage, all of one moon, it had been so. On the day before they set sail, the _Nymeria_ 's mistress arrived… but she wasn't alone. The ship now had a master too. And Tavier Fyste, captain of this fine vessel, was no longer answering to Arya Stark. She was now Lady Arya Baratheon, wed to Lord Gendry Baratheon. It was not what he had expected, another rich noble to contend with, but he had been well-paid to run the ship, not run his mouth. And so their long journey began, all accounted for… or so they thought. Two days out of King's Landing, it had been Regen on watch who had spotted a small ship heading towards them, a Westerosi flag flying high. The princess had requested they drop anchor and wait for it to pull alongside the _Nymeria_. 

She had also requested that the crew stop calling her "Princess" and "Lady" and simply call her "Arya." So far, less than one-third had complied.

To the surprise of both Arya and her lord husband the ship carried Ser Davos Seaworth, King's Landing's Master of Ships, and a sad, young woman they called Gilly. Ser Davos asked Arya if the princess wouldn't mind a few extra mouths to feed on her exploratory voyage West, and Lord Baratheon, clearly closer to the older man, just embraced him in response. The young woman, Gilly, stood to the side and simply gazed out at the water. Waves of grief rolled off her. Once it was clear that the two could stay, all she did was ask to be shown where she could retire.

Tavier had seen Ser Davos out and about these last three weeks. The man clearly knew ships and was of great help wherever needed. Gilly, on the other hand, he had only encountered during meals, and then she was silent, eating quickly before disappearing back to the small cabin that had been made available to her. So, it was a surprise that morning when Tavier rounded the deck and saw her standing at the bow of the ship, the gentle breeze blowing her hair, her face tilted up, basking in the sun's rays. He paused, not sure if he should disturb her, but curiosity got the better of him.

"Miss Gilly," he called out quietly as he moved closer. She turned to face him and smiled.

"Captain. I was just enjoying the salty air. It's really nice."

"Are you feeling better then? You've been cooped up in your cabin for near two weeks now." He offered kindly. She had such a sweet face, her voice matched it. He'd never been married, never thought of it even, but he imagined that if he had, and had a babe of his own, he'd like a daughter who looked as sweet as this young Gilly here.

Her smile faded and he cursed himself. She shook her head.

"No. I don't feel better at all. I don't think I will for some time. But I don't think staying all alone in a dark room is going to help me. If I wanted to do that, I could have just stayed in King's Landing with Sam. I came with Davos because I need to do something. Anything. Sitting in a room doing nothing is doing nothing." She smiled again, and it was indeed a sweet smile. "Out here, looking at this beautiful water, smelling the air with salt in it is new. I can smell the salt! That is something. I like it." She nodded and the smile was still there, still sweet, but her eyes, they were still sad too, and lined with wet.

Tavier nodded in kind. "I'll leave you to it then, miss." He backed away and turned around as she once more looked to the sea, her face lifted to the sun. He hoped that she was enjoying the salt in the air again. 

The salt air and calm waves were about all one could find to enjoy on this journey so far. Their travels West hadn't been quite the rousing adventure that had been promised.

  
**—TWO MOONS BEFORE—**

It had been a fortnight since the Dragon Queen had rained fire down on King's Landing. The taverns and brothels had been the first structures to rebuild and so when Tavier returned to the capital, it was no surprise to see Mary's Tavern, his regular drinking spot, already open for business. It was full to the brim with patrons, some worse for the wear, but with money to spare for a spot of ale and a companion for the night. 

Tavier Fyste, proud owner of the once fine ship, _The Blue Fist_ , was looking for a new vessel to captain for him and the handful of loyal crewmembers who would follow him, with or without a ship of his own. He had spent near thirty years earning his keep to own his own boat and after only a few summers sailing her, a Targaryen, one of the nobles from the Great Houses of Westeros came in and destroyed his life's dream. His ship, his beautiful _Blue Fist_ up in flames.

He brought his ale to his lips and took a long draught. Setting the cup back down, he scoffed and shook his head. "Because that's what the rich folk always do, " he muttered under his breath. 

"Captain Fyste?” A quiet, yet commanding voice interrupted his thoughts. Tavier looked up, taking note first that the young woman standing before him had said his name correctly. Not like 'fist,' despite what he'd named his vessel, but like the word 'lie' with the hiss of a snake at the end. That put her on his good side at the start. 

He took another drink of his ale, taking his time while he took measure of her. Dark-haired, pale of skin, she had the look of a Northerner. And he knew of Northerners. His first mate, Carpen Weilldfoot, was as North as they come. This one here was a little wisp of a thing, but still had a sword on her right side, and a catspaw dagger on her left. Both looked of high quality. As did her clothing and boots. Tavier snorted. _Another noblewoman._

Sighing heavily, he raised his gaze to meet hers. The woman had stood still while he had looked her over. Still and silent as a statue. When their eyes met, she raised her brow. "Come to your conclusion then?”

Tavier said nothing.

She reached into her half-cape and pulled out a pouch and threw it on the table in front of him. The clank of coins got his attention, but he didn't make a move towards it. He wanted to hear what she had to say first.

"That's enough to buy and outfit a ship for quite a long voyage. I need a good captain.” She took a step forward and pulled the chair opposite him out and sat down, facing him, her eyes never leaving his once. "I've heard, Captain Fyste, that you are a very, very good captain.”

He didn't touch the pouch. He didn't look away from her either. "What kind of voyage?”

"West of Westeros.”

Then he looked away. Bringing his hand to his face, he rubbed it over his eyes and shook his head. _So this one wasn't just another noblewoman with money to spare, she was mad._ Tavier picked up his drink.

"I'm not mad.”

He met her gaze again.

"I'm Arya Stark." She cocked her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. "Perhaps you've heard of me."

Tavier laughed. Now this he didn't believe. This little thing couldn't possibly be _the_ Arya Stark. The Bringer of the Dawn. The Slayer of the Night King. The heralded Princess that was Promised that Carpen worshipped in all of her Northern glory. The great daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. The Princess of Winterfell and the new Six Kingdoms of Westeros. He laughed again. "Tell me another."

Rising to his feet, he walked around the table, already imagining how Carpen would love hearing about this. And then she was there, right in front of him. He hadn't heard her move, hadn't heard the chair scrape across the wooden floor. It hadn't been more than a moment or two, but there she was suddenly in front of him. And even smaller than he'd realized while he was sitting. This girl who claimed to be Arya Stark barely reached his shoulders; she was such a tiny little thing. Oh, but she had brass on her, she did. 

"Captain Fyste, I wasn't done speaking with you," she said. Her voice was tart, and an eyebrow was raised again but if he was reading the look on her face right, she was amused. She wasn't angered by his dismissal. Perhaps she'd been expecting this response. She had to have been. _West of Westeros. It was mad. She was mad._

"Think about it. I know that Daenerys Targaryen destroyed your ship. I'm having another built, the finest, and it will be yours to outfit as you see best. I am trusting you to handpick the crew. And I will pay you handsomely to undertake this voyage. A voyage to discover what no one in the history of Westeros has ever discovered. What is West of Westeros? This is an adventure unlike you or possibly anyone else has ever undertaken."

And then she smiled. A gleam, a spark of such joy, something he could only describe as an undeniable zest for life, lighting her eyes. "Think about it, Captain Fyste. I'll find you in a few days and we'll talk again."

  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**

Arya told him later that she was willing to wait him out however long it took… within reason. She would have waited a long time, had it not been for Carpen. Wanting to sail West of Westeros. She truly was mad. But she was mad with a lot of gold to offer and a beautiful ship to captain, the finest one indeed. Then there was his first mate, Carpen Weildfoot, a Northerner through and through. Once Carpen knew that Arya Stark was in play, Tavier had no choice. Carpen loved the sea but loved the North more and Arya Stark was a Northerner, the prophesied Princess who was Promised as far as he was concerned. She had slain the Night King and saved them all. According to Carpen if she wanted to go West, they should go West. Wherever the Princess wanted to go, they would go. Wherever Arya Stark wanted to go, Carpen would follow… with or without payment.

Tavier Fyste agreed to go. He was a sailor after all. He loved the seas, loved adventure and the opportunity to captain a brand new, finely built ship paid for by someone else, how could he say no to that? Still, he wasn't from the North, he was born in Flea Bottom. He held no allegiance to this Princess. He would take the gold. 

A good decision it had turned out to be. She was nobility, royalty, but nothing like any he'd ever met. Arya Stark was good stock. If he could only say the same for her husband. Tavier shook his head. When they had first spoken, she had still been a Stark, not yet wed to Lord Baratheon. It had been a concern to him, bringing a young, unmarried woman aboard a ship for a long journey. He'd said as much to Carpen, but the very idea of anyone touching a hair on Arya Stark was unfathomable to him. Her reputation was beyond that of any other lass. 

"No one will touch her," Carpen had declared adamantly. "She's Arya Stark." And that had been his final statement on the matter. As he and his first mate had rounded up crew for the journey, whenever her name had been mentioned, awe and fear had followed, as songs of her exploits—from her slaying of the Night King and rumors of the extinction of House Frey—had begun to make the rounds. Tavier realized that Carpen had been right. Arya Stark would suffer at the hands of no man. 

As days turned into weeks, awe and fear had turned into fondness, with more than a few of the older sailors looking on Arya as the daughter they'd never had. The same couldn't be said for her fancy lord husband. Heading to the center of the ship, Tavier went below deck and heard the voices of Ser Davos and that same man, Lord Baratheon. He knew that he should turn around, but once more his curiosity got the better of him and he found himself listening to what they had to say. If he weren't careful, it would be the death of him one of these days. It was a good thing that he was a very careful man. 

Arya's husband was talking about her, explaining things that surely Ser Davos already knew. "Arya grew up in a castle. She actually is a lady, even if she doesn't act like one." It hadn't taken long for the entire crew to learn that, and the Master of Ships knew the Night King Slayer before the journey even began. "You know what I mean, Davos?"

"Aye, I do." Yes, it was just as Tavier expected. Ser Davos already knew this.

"But the crew, they're comfortable with her. They joke, they don't resent her like they do me." Ah, now Tavier understood. So, Lord Baratheon was not as blind as Tavier thought he might be. He did see the difference in how they treated her as opposed to how they did him. "They treat me more like nobility than they do her. I'm not saying I want them to resent her, I don't. I just–"

That Tavier could understand. While Lord Baratheon did appear to be rather stuck on himself, there was no doubt that he adored his wife, and would never want anyone to treat her badly in any way. And it was also clear that he valued Ser Davos and understood that in just a few short weeks the crew already highly respected the man and looked up to him. Getting advice from him and following it just might be how Lord Baratheon could finally stop being such a horse's arse with the _Nymeria_ 's crew.

"You don't want them to resent you?" Ser Davos asked the obvious question. Tavier snorted quietly. _Like that's going to happen_ , he thought. _Rich lord, everything handed to him on a silver platter_.

"YES!" The rich lord cried vehemently, and Tavier rolled his eyes.

"Lad, you want the truth of it?" And Tavier had to marvel at Ser Davos' level of patience.

"Yes. I don't understand." 

"Of course, you don't," Tavier muttered under his breath.

"It's how you wear your title," Davos explained.

"I-I don't understand." The young lord replied and Tavier echoed that thought because he was confused as well. _How he wore the title_? He wondered. _What the fuck does that mean?_ "A title is all I've got and that's just because..." Lord Baratheon continued, but then trailed off.

Ser Davos sighed and Tavier leaned closer in, anxious to hear more. The older man continued, "none of that matters to this lot because they don't know when or how or why you got your title, just that you have one. What they know is that when someone calls you 'Milord,' or 'Lord Baratheon,' you stand up straight. Your spine stiffens, and you take a moment to respond. I know why you're doing it. So does Arya." 

Tavier's bewilderment grew. Obviously, there was more to Lord Baratheon's story than he or any of the others knew. He took a step closer and peered into the galley where the two were talking. Ser Davos paused and scratched his beard before continuing. 

"I did the same thing when your uncle first knighted me. Didn't seem real. I imagine it's the same for you. All those years as a bastard eating a bowl of brown in Flea Bottom, treated like the shit you had to step in or around every day, and here you are suddenly being called 'Lord' everywhere you turn." Tavier's eyes widened. Well, that was a twist. The princess whom they all treated like one of them was raised in a castle, while Lord Baratheon was a Flea Bottom bastard recently made a lord, yet the crew treated him with barely concealed contempt due to his rank. Not all the crew, of course. Carpen was as kind to him as he was to every living creature he encountered.

Ser Davos reached out and clasped Gendry's shoulder. "To someone who doesn't know you, it feels like you think you're better than them, don't want to even bother with the likes of 'em. But then you do because, well, Arya would want you to." Tavier nodded, thinking that it was exactly how it appeared, but could see so clearly the truth of it now. The boy didn't think he was better than them, he just wasn't used to being called by the title, treated like a noble. He was uneasy, uncomfortable with it as he'd been a bastard his whole life.

"That's not–" Gendry protested. Yes, Gendry. Tavier made himself think of Lord Baratheon as Gendry now.

"Aye, I know." Ser Davos assured him. "But that's how it looks. So, if you want my advice, get used to the fact that you're a lord and then get over it. Because it's not worth the spit you send into the sea. Not to Arya, and not to anyone of these hard-working crew who are keeping this fine ship afloat."

Ser Davos was a wise man. That was good advice for Gendry to follow, but it would take time still for him to get comfortable in the skin of nobility and wearing the name of a lord. Tavier could do his part to help. He hadn't known her long, but in the two moons that he had, from their first meeting, through the construction of the _Nymeria_ and during the voyage thus far, he liked Arya Stark Baratheon. She was a good person. Carpen worshipped her. He knew of her and her family. The Starks were good people. Through the generations, they had protected the North. And if she had chosen Gendry Baratheon, Tavier had faith that he was a good man. 

He headed back up deck, thinking about Gendry, and couldn't help but feel for him. The rest of the crew didn't know his story. All they saw was a stiff lord who couldn't bother to speak to them. If they knew the truth of it, they would treat him differently. As their Captain, it wasn't his place to tell stories, but there was someone who could… someone who loved to tell tales. 

He found Carpen on the quarterdeck sitting on a barrel, a basket of material, colors of gold, grey and black, at his feet. A sewing needle was in one hand, a pair of scissors in the other, and a smile on his face.

"Captain Fyste, how are you this fine day?" He asked with a cheery voice as he applied to the task before him, stitching gold and black together.

"I'm doing well. Carpen, you?" And then before his first mate could answer, because he knew it would be a long, enthusiastic response about the joys of life on the sea, under the sun, with friends, doing what he loved and especially serving under Arya Baratheon herself, he continued. "Wonderful. I need a favor."

"Anything for the man that has helped me serve my life's purpose, a wonderful life on the sea, basking under the warm, golden rays of the sun, spending time with my friends, laughing, sharing stories, doing what I love most in life, sailing, sewing sails and mending, making clothes as my good mum taught me. And, of course, it's because of you and your brilliant captainship, that she sought you out for this journey West. Arya Stark of Winterfell. The Princess of Westeros. The Slayer of the Night King. The Scourge of House Frey. The Bringer of the Dawn, Lady Arya Baratheon. Anything for you, my captain."

Tavier sighed. And then smiled. And then chuckled. He shouldn't have even tried to forestall it. As long as Carpen had a tongue he would extoll the virtues and joys of his life and of Arya Baratheon. "It's about Lord Baratheon."

"Ah, the good lady's husband. What can I do?" Flipping over the fabric, Carpen began work on the other side, his neat stitches so beautifully crafted that one could barely see them.

"I assume you know how he came into his title…" Tavier trailed off. He wasn't completely sure that Carpen would know all of Gendry's story, but he was fairly certain that he would know as much as he had overheard between the lord and Ser Davos. 

"Of course." His first mate responded simply. "What of it?"

"Tell me all." Tavier settled down next to Carpen and wasn't surprised that all indeed was what his friend was able to tell him.

  
**IT TOOK LESS** than a day for Carpen's stories about Gendry to make its way to the rest of the crew. Gendry was King Robert's only surviving bastard after Joffrey Baratheon had tried to kill them all when the stories came out about his true parentage. He traveled with Princess Arya when she was younger, and later reunited with her before the Long Night. He was significant in the fight against the Undead. It was Gendry who was in charge of making the Dragonglass weapons that armed the Northern army that helped defeat the enemy. And for his part, he was legitimized by the Dragon Queen and given a castle and wardenship of the entire Southern region, but he gave it all up to be with the lady he loved, Arya Stark, the Princess that was Promised. 

And here he was now, aboard the _Nymeria_ , sailing West of Westeros with the princess, his lady. 

Movement caught Tavier's eye, and he looked to his left to see that very same princess at her morning routine, her sword slashing before her as she did her so-called water dance. Only a few of the crew now watched her, having grown used to the daily ritual. She no longer wore the black jerkin and trousers of the North. Instead, her wardrobe had been changing to a lighter material, befitting the warmer winds and temperature. Her choice of attire today was a fitted, grey pants, and gold bandeau, lined in black, with straps crisscrossing over her chest, leaving her abdomen bare.

The one person who still came out every morning, watched every practice, never took his gaze off her every movement was Gendry. And when she finished, as she did today, he was there to check her sword, to take her hand, to wrap her in his arms. To welcome her kiss. Never mind the dirt and grime that stuck to her weapon considering all the places she had stuck it during her training. Not caring of the sweat and stink that covered her skin. 

Today, in this moment, watching the two for a guilty flash, Tavier had to question that he had ever thought Gendry anything like other nobles. He'd never seen one before who was so willing to get his hands dirty or so open and honest in his love for his lady for all to see. Yes, Lord Baratheon, Gendry, the former bastard of Flea Bottom, was good stock too.

 **—THE NEXT CHAPTER: THE FANCY LORD WHO SAID NO** —


	6. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 05: Gendry I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry makes a decision about his future, after reflecting on his past.
> 
>  **Characters** : Gendry Baratheon, Arya Stark, Bran Stark, Tyrion Lannister, Jon Snow  
>  **Relationships** : Arya/Gendry, Gendry & Jon, Gendry & Tyrion, Tyrion & Bran
> 
> * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written every chapter for Part I so far (all 15, plus the prologue, although I'm still editing them). This is my favorite chapter.

** THE FANCY LORD WHO SAID NO **

**—TWO MOONS BEFORE—**

So much of the Red Keep had been destroyed and yet here he was in a room much more beautiful than in any he'd ever laid eyes upon. Nicer than the one at Dragonstone that the Red Witch had taken him to where she'd drugged him, used her beauty to seduce him, then tied him up and brought out the leeches. Not that he ever thought of that night as seduction. Although truth be told, he tried very, very hard to not think of that night at all. Gendry shook his head, banishing the thought of leeches near parts of his body they should never have been near ever, and of the Red Witch too, dead the morning after the Long Night. 

Reaching out, he ran a hand along the bedpost and looked around. "Yes, this room is much nicer," he murmured. 

It was also definitely nicer than Arya's bedchamber in Winterfell. That made sense. Staying in her childhood room, she hadn't changed anything about it and the little girl that Arya had been was as much a lady then as she was now, not much interested in silk and fine things. Walking to the bed, he ran his hand over the golden velvet curtains, tied back to the post, one at each corner. "Very nice. Nicer than Storm's End even."

He'd only been there one night. He had left Winterfell the day after he'd stupidly proposed to Arya without any thought in his head. He had been so drunk on the delirious joy of being on equal standing with her. "As if you'd ever been on equal standing with Arya Stark," he mumbled to himself as he took in the room again, thinking that same thought even now. And she had made that clear. He'd told himself over and over on the angry ride to his new home. Not that he was filled with anger at Arya. No, never her. It wasn't her fault that he was an idiot. He was angry with himself for daring to dream, daring to believe that she would ever love him, ever want to be with the likes of a bastard just because the queen had given him his drunken whore of a father's last name. 

Upon arrival at Storm's End, he'd been greeted by a few of the lords of the Stormlands, Estermont, Morrigen, Swann, Grandison. Ser Richard Morrigen introduced himself as the current steward of Storm's End and offered his fealty and service, as did the others present. Lord Estermont was most enthusiastic about his legitimization and not concerned at all with his former bastardy. The elder nobleman had told him that without him the Baratheon bloodline was extinct, therefore he was just pleased to have a Stag once more roaming the realm, never mind the circumstances of his birth. 

The group of them drank in the great hall, toasting to all of the wonderful things the new Lord of Storm's End would do. None of them appeared to notice how little drinking or toasting their new liege lord did, but they went to bed happy, so he supposed his first night as Warden of the Southlands was a success. The next morning while they lay sleeping off their wine, Gendry's clear mind and good rest allowed him to finally think about that night. The night that he had been given a last name belonging to one of the Great Houses of Westeros, a castle, and a wardenship. The night that he had asked Arya Stark to become his lady. And he realized where he had erred. And so foolishly. 

He had asked Arya Stark, Lady Arya Stark, who had said it plainly when she first told him that she _was_ Lady Arya Stark that she wasn't a lady, to be his lady. What a fool he was. What a bloody, stupid fool. Arya Stark was no lady and she wouldn't want to be any man's lady, not even his. But his family? That was something else entirely. She had said that to him as well once upon a time. "I can be your family," she had told him, her eyes wide and full of tears. And he had said no because he couldn't be what she wanted. 

And that was why she said no to him. Because she couldn't be what she thought he wanted. Because he had asked the wrong question. What a bloody, bloody stupid fool he was.

Now here he was in King's Landing, having left the lords of the South behind asleep in their beds with word to the castle's castellan to await further explanation. What that would be, he had no idea. And to be honest, he didn't care. All he cared about was Arya. She was the reason he was there in King's Landing. After all, she was the only reason he was alive and not dead like so many others, burned to death by the Dragon Queen on the Street of Steel. If it weren't for her, that's exactly where he would have been when Daenerys Targaryen let loose her dragon on King's Landing. He went with Davos for her. He joined Jon Snow and his cause for her. She had wanted him to serve her brother, the King of the North. It was a different brother he wound up serving, but it was the thought that counted.

He was here because of Arya and only Arya. 

Gendry sighed and shook his head. That wasn't true. She wasn't the only reason that he was there now in the capital. He was also there to help her family and to help make the decision for Westeros which, yes, included her beloved North and Winterfell. He was also there to help that very same brother who had saved Westeros by killing the woman that he had loved. That very queen who had destroyed the Street of Steel and a good part of Flea Bottom where Gendry grew up. 

And now as the Warden of the South… Gendry shook his head, the thought of that still completely unreal to him, but it was who he was, at least right now. And as long as he still had that power, he was going to help free Jon Snow. Yes, for Arya—because she loved her brother, but also because Jon was a good man. He had been a good king, and in the short time that he and Jon had spent together, he had been a good friend to him. A good friend, who had given him some very good advice.

  
****—FOUR MOONS BEFORE—** **

****

****

Most men would be scared when a woman stands before them and tells them that she knows death. Most men would be scared when a woman calmly throws a dangerous weapon once, twice, three times, sending it whistling right past their ear with deadly accuracy with little expression upon their face. Most men were not Gendry watching that woman who just happened to be a fully-grown Arya Stark. She was the most beautiful, amazing, wonderful creature he had ever laid eyes upon. She had wanted him to come to Winterfell with her many, many, many moons ago. It had taken him the long road to get there. But here they both were. And he never wanted to leave her side again. 

He worked hard on that weapon of hers she wanted. He wanted it to be perfect for her. As perfect as she was. And, Gods, was she bloody perfect. The fierce warrior that she'd been as a girl was still there, he could see it in the flames that she kept so intensely contained in the controlled way she walked, in her precise movements. He knew, he just knew, that when she struck, when she fought, when she was ready to release it, all of that heat within her would burn as brightly, as hotly as it ever did. She was born in ice but blazed with fire. All of it was just there under the surface. Under control.

It was late, all of the other smiths had gone to bed and now the dawn was breaking, Gendry had worked through the night and was still working on her weapon. And he was thinking of her, Gendry was always thinking of her. _Arya_ , his soul sang just as the metal did whenever he brought his hammer down upon the steel. Jon stopped by to see him. He didn't notice him at first, so caught up was he in the finishing touches of the weapon he was making for Arya. Finally, he looked up. He saw Jon. Jon was staring at him. He looked unsure, angry, confused. Gendry carefully set down his project. He figured that he knew why Jon was there.

"Arya talked to you," he said, and it wasn't a question. Jon had been good to him, but he'd never sought him out before. He may have no longer been the King of the North, but he was still a very important man.

"Yes." They were both silent, and then Jon burst out, not in anger, rather there was frustration in his tone. "Why didn't you tell me? Gendry, why didn't you tell me that you knew her? That you had travelled with her? And for so long! And it wasn't just you! It was Clegane and Beric Dondarrion. All of you!"

Gendry shook his head. "I can't speak for them. Just for myself." He sighed and looked around, wondering if Arya was going to suddenly, silently pop up as she had a habit of doing of late. When she didn't, he continued. "I thought she was dead. You know that the Brotherhood sold me to the Red Witch, and she took me to my uncle Stannis. I told you that." Jon nodded. 

"After Davos freed me, I went back to King's Landing and I heard about," he paused, knowing that Robb Stark wasn't just Arya's brother, but Jon's also. Still, he dug in and carried on. "I heard about the Red Wedding. I knew that the Brotherhood was taking her to your brother. That was the plan. I didn't know if they'd gotten there before what happened or not. But I kept listening, kept waiting to hear word, anything about Arya and I never did."

Jon was silent, listening. "I hoped that she was alive, but, honestly, I thought she was dead. I didn't know how she could be alive. The Brotherhood would have ransomed her off to someone. They wouldn't have kept a lady of one of the Great Houses with them all that time. And yet her name never came up. We still heard about her sister, but never Arya. As far as I knew, you thought she was dead too. I didn't know what good it would do to tell you that I knew her when she was younger, to give you hope that she was alive when for all I knew she was dead. I think it was the same for the Hound and Lord Beric."

"Yes," Jon confirmed. "They both had similar reasons. Funny, though, you're the only one that Arya defended for not telling me." Jon took a step closer. "Why is that you think?"

Gendry looked down at the weapon and shrugged. "Dunno." 

"I do."

He looked back up at Jon. "You do?"

"My name isn't Jon Snow."

Gendry shook his head, confused by the change in conversation and absolutely confused by what Jon Snow, or no, not Jon Snow, had just said. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"I just found out that my name is not Jon Snow, and that I'm not a bastard. Robb wasn't my brother, or Rickon. Not Bran. Arya and Sansa aren't my sisters. Because Eddard Stark wasn't my father. He was my uncle. His sister, Lyanna Stark, the woman that your father loved, was my mother. My father was Rhaegar Targaryen. And my mother loved him, not your father. She wasn't kidnapped by Rhaegar. She ran away with him, married him after he had his marriage to Elia Martell annulled and she bore him a child. Me. Your father, the whole of Westeros thought differently and after Robert Baratheon killed Rhaegar at the Trident and Ned Stark found his sister, she lay dying in childbirth. She made him promise to not tell anyone who I was lest Robert find out. He would have had me killed otherwise. And so my—and so my uncle told the world, including his lady wife, that he had lie with another woman and she had borne him a bastard son."

Gendry's jaw dropped midway through Jon's recitation and remained hanging open as he finished. He didn't know how to respond. 

"Ned Stark called me Jon Snow, but that's not my given name. It is Aegon Targaryen. My—" he broke off and then cleared his throat and continued. "I was given the same name as the son of a wife he'd already thrown away. My uncle called me his bastard child and kept that secret his entire life, and Lady Catelyn hated me *her* whole life for his dishonor and never let me forget it."

Jon Snow, no, Aegon Targaryen looked steadily at Gendry. "I am the heir to the Iron Throne, not Daenerys Targaryen. She doesn't know this. She knows me still as Jon Snow. I don't know how to tell her. I don't know if I should tell her. I don't—I don't want it. I don't even want the damn thing. She does. More than anything." His gaze did not waver, and Gendry still did not know what to say. "What do you think I should do?"

Gendry shook his head. "Why? Why tell me this? Me? Why ask me?"

"Arya cares for you. Deeply. That is why she defended you and only you. She trusts you. I do as well. You proved yourself beyond the Wall, and… And Arya trusts you. That's enough. And I needed to tell someone who isn't involved in all of this." Jon, yes, he was still Jon Snow, whatever name he had been given at his birth, he, Jon turned from Gendry and began pacing. "What do I do?"

Gendry was still. He could tell Jon that he was in no position to answer his questions. He was just a bastard blacksmith, never mind who his father was. He'd never known love, not really. Yes, his heart was singing for Arya now, but was that love? He wasn't sure. Then Jon's pacing brought him face-forward again and Gendry realized that he didn't need to know love to answer. Because this wasn't about love, not the kind of love that was between a man and a woman. It was about pain and loss and family, and the love you have and yearn for when you have family or when you don't. And those were things that Gendry understood all too well. Besides in the end it wasn't his decision. Jon Snow would follow his own heart. More than anything, Gendry was just another voice that Jon needed to hear and weigh his options against, Gendry thought, but still he would add his to whatever chorus Jon was listening to.

"You love the queen?" He asked.

"Yes," was Jon's immediate reply.

Gendry took a deep breath. "Tell her the truth."

Jon nodded, and Gendry sensed that he had correctly supposed a moment ago. Jon didn't need to be told what to do. He just needed help believing that the decision he had already made was the right one. Reaching out, he clasped Gendry's arm. "Thank you." He turned to go, but then stopped and looked at Gendry. "Did you join me because of our fathers or because of my sister?"

Just as quick as Jon's answer was about his love for Daenerys Targaryen so was Gendry's response to Jon's question. "For Arya."

"Tell her. Tell her you're here at Winterfell not for me, not for dead men, but for her." Jon left the forge and Gendry looked up at the winter sky, grey with an oncoming storm. He closed his eyes, tiredness washing over him, thinking on Jon's words.

  
**—TWO MOONS LATER—**

Gendry opened his eyes, he was still looking at grey clouds, but now they were the grey from the ashes still left from the Dragon Queen's fiery rampage. He wondered if the advice he gave to Jon hadn't been nearly as good in return and might have been a part of what led to all of this. He may have a nice room in what was left of the Red Keep, but the view out of his window was devastating. He thought again of that conversation with Jon that wasn't that long ago but now seemed like a lifetime. His queen was dead, slain by Jon's own hand, and Arya had left Gendry behind in Winterfell after his stupid, drunken proposal. Nothing could save Jon's relationship with Daenerys Targaryen, but Gendry could maybe help save Jon's life. 

Of course, he wasn't only back here in King's Landing to save Arya's brother. He was also here to make things right with Arya. His realization the morning after his night with the lords of the Southlands had given him hope. The door of his room opened and there she was. Arya. 

Before he could say a word, she was in front of him, leaning up, her lips pressed against his. That he was not expecting, but he was happy to receive her kiss. His hope doubled, tripled. Taking her face in his hands, he savored the taste of her, the feel, the scent of her, of everything that was Arya. Gods, how he had missed her.

Stepping back, he gazed at her to take in the beauty of her face. For just a second or two longer, her eyes remained closed as if to appreciate the moment herself. And then they snapped open, her spine stiffened and the controlled fire that he loved so well settled deep within her, contained once more.

"Hello, Arya." He said softly, afraid to send her away before he could speak the words that had been running through his mind for days. 

She smiled at him, a soft smile, full of gratitude. A good start. "I'm glad you're alive and she's dead. She can't hurt you. She can't hurt anyone I care about ever again."

At that he couldn't help himself, he grinned. "Did milady say she cares about me?" And as if she couldn't help herself either, the moment he said the word 'milady,' she smiled, but just as quickly gave a tart report, almost in anger, but he knew there was no heat in it.

"Don't call me that."

He laughed; his heart happy. He loved her. It really was as simple as that. He knew that now. She made him happy. Like no one and nothing else ever had. Leaning down, he kissed her again, his arms wrapped about her waist as he pulled her tightly to him, wanting to feel every inch of her pressed against him, never wanting to let her go. Gods, he loved her. Pulling away to gasp for breath, he began peppering her cheek, her jawline with kisses. She laughed, giggling against his throat, but then suddenly, she pushed him away and stepped back, her expression serious.

Suddenly there was a sick feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. _No_ , he thought, _I haven't said one word of my speech yet. She can't leave me._

"Gendry, I'm not going to Storm's End–" And her tone was so soft, filled with such love. She didn't want to hurt him, but it was OK because she didn't, she wasn't, not with those words. Instead, he felt an immediate sense of relief.

"I know. You're going to Winterfell where it's so bloody cold I'll freeze my balls off, but I don't care. If you're there so am I." That is what he had realized that night. So, Arya didn't want to be the Lady of Storm's End. That was perfectly alright with him. Then he wouldn't be the Lord of Storm's End. As long as he was with her.

She looked confused but took a deep breath and carried on. "Gendry, you don't understand. I'm not going North." And now it was his turn to look confused because she was right. He didn't understand. If she didn't want to be at Storm's End or Winterfell, where did she want to be? Certainly not here in King's Landing. 

"I'm sailing West." _West? What's West?_ He thought.

"What's West?" He asked.

She shrugged. "Who knows?"

He opened his mouth but couldn't find any words to say. 'Who knows,' she said. He turned away and walked to the window. Outside, he could still see the ravages caused by all of the destruction that Daenerys had caused. This world they lived in was such a dangerous place and she was intentionally seeking more. He turned back to face her.

"You'll get killed! You do know that. By pirates or sea monsters or storms or–Arya…" He trailed off when she just stood there completely unmoved by his tirade. He closed and then opened his eyes. He took a deep breath. He shook his head and then just let it all go because… Arya. "Fine, West it is." He ran a hand over his short hair. "I've gotten used to being on boats. Don't like them much but a longer voyage, maybe I'll grow to like them."

"What? No, Gendry, you can't come with me!" She cried. "You're Lord of Storm's End." She moved closer to him, rattling off his titles, as if he didn't know the damn things. "Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Warden of the South. You have responsibilities–"

He cut her off. "–And I know fuck-all how to do any of it! I'm not a Lord! I'm a bastard blacksmith from Flea Bottom." Reaching out, he grabbed her hands and sighed. "I meant what I said that night. I don't care about any of it without you. I don't want a castle. I wouldn't even know what to do with one. And all of those people depending on me to take care of them? They'll be dead before the year is out." He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs gently caressing her cheeks. "All I want is a family, and you, Arya Stark, you are my family. It took me years to figure that out, but I finally did and I'm not letting you go again. Not if you want me."

Her eyes were wide, her lips parted softly as she looked up at him, her heart staring straight at him. "Gendry–" Arya reached up and covered his hands with her own.

"Arry, please." He shook his head, not sure where the 'Arry' had come from. The little grin that appeared on her face told him it was the right thing to say. It was who they were, their past connecting them to their future. "I love you and I know that you love me, I know you do. I want to be with you. Just you, not some lady, but you."

She sighed. "I—Gendry…"

This was his chance. He was going to say the words. "Arya, whoever those fancy lords decide to become their next king, I'll go to him and say 'thank you, but no thank you,' you can take back this title and this castle and these lands. All I want is milady who isn't a lady and this name so when someday I put a babe in her belly, the child isn't a bastard."

She shook her head, but she was smiling. And she laughed. His lady who wasn't a lady, she laughed. 

"Gendry," and she still held his hands that still cupped her face. And she still gazed deeply into his eyes. He knew that he had her. He knew. Gendry took a step back. He was giving up so much and he didn't care. She was worth it, worth it all, but on one thing he would not compromise. Stepping back, her hands fell from his as Gendry's arms dropped heavily to his side, as heavy as the emotion in his voice.

"Arya, you may not care, but you've never been a bastard. I have and it's a terrible life. Our children will bear the name of their father." She gave the tiniest of nods, so small that if he hadn't been focusing so intensely on her, he would have missed it. But he was and so he caught it. 

"Gendry…" It was a game now.

"I'll stow aboard." He said as he took her hand in his, entwining their fingers and she was smiling again, a flirty tease in the curve of her lips.

"Stubborn bull," she groused.

"Yes." And he was smiling too, a wolfish grin, because he had her. She was his. There was no drink clouding his mind unlike the night of his stupid, clumsy proposal. She was going to say yes. This time.

Raising an eyebrow, she leaned in slightly. "You are one of those fancy lords who will decide the next king," she reminded him tartly.

Gendry snorted derisively, he was having fun now because he knew, oh, he knew, but then he shook his head once more, because, no, he wanted an answer. He wanted to hear her say yes. Determination settled on his features. "Then I'll be sure to cast a vote for one who will set me free."

Allowing vulnerability to run across her features, Arya looked at him, her expression open and honest. "I want to be free."

"I know," Gendry told her as sincerely and honestly as he could. "And we can be free together."

She shook her head. "I'm not a lady, that's not me."

Bending down, Gendry pressed a kiss to her lips, infusing as much of the feeling that he had for her into the action. Pulling away, he waited for her eyes to open and looked at her, deeply, thoroughly, sending every thought of love he possibly could and then he spoke slowly and clearly and definitively. "Arya, I don't want a lady. I want you." 

Her face softened, and something inside of him tightened because it was Arya letting her walls down, vulnerable, the wolf showing her belly. His own expression softened. "And, Arya, I'm not a lord." Then he grinned. She raised a brow, as if she knew what he was going to say and as if daring him to continue, but he couldn't help himself. "That's not me." 

Her lips pursed ever so slightly, her eyes cast downward and then flashed back up to him and then she said the word. The only word he needed to hear from her. "Yes." 

He looked at her, his blue eyes piercing. "So, Arya, when do we leave?"

She reached up and kissed him softly again. Pulling back, it was a moment before her eyes opened. "As soon as you fancy lords choose a king who will take back your title and castle and lands."

  
**TWO DAYS LATER** and they had barely seen each other in the flurry of the arrival of the other rulers of Westeros, the discussion of the prisoners, Lannister and Snow, not to mention the continuing clean-up after the destruction wrought by the Battle of the Bells. There had been a few stolen moments, but few and momentary they had been. He had hoped to share his nights with her, but Arya had been with both her sister and brother, Bran, or helping search parties look for survivors. He had offered to help, but as Lord Paramount to the Stormlands, Warden of the South, he was much too important apparently to risk for such a mission. Instead, he had spent his time in the forge of the Red Keep working on a special project. It kept him busy. Otherwise, the fact that he was a man of such import would have had him doing nothing.

****

****

At last his time of any matter to the kingdom of Westeros was near its end. He hadn't had to do much at the Dragonpit. Merely say the word, "Aye," when Lord Tyrion had proposed that Bran Stark be named the next king. Gendry had looked to Arya, she appeared fine with the decision and so "Aye" is what he said. If she approved, so did he. It didn't make much of a difference to him as they were leaving within the next moon anyway. And as the man would be his good brother soon enough, it would make it that much easier to do what needed to be done. Of course, his soon-to-be good brother's second act as the newly named King of Westeros then made that task even easier. He'd appointed Lord Tyrion Lannister as his Hand. The former Hand of the Dragon Queen owed Gendry a favor. And Gendry preferred taking care of this through his own merit rather than using his connection to the king because he was Arya's brother. 

Once everyone assembled began to mill about and Lord Tyrion was unchained, Gendry headed toward him, beating the lady knight's squire, Pod, who was carrying a goblet of wine his way. 

"Lord Tyrion, a word, if you wouldn't mind." Gendry said once he reached him. 

The newly freed prisoner turned to face him, surprise on his face. "Might it wait until I've had some wine?" He looked to Pod and with a wide smile took the cup. "Thank you, Pod. I have missed you. Will you be staying here in King's Landing?"

"Lord Tyrion?" Gendry interrupted. He was quite anxious to get this done.

"Yes, Lord Tyrion, I believe so. I'll have to speak to Lady Brienne." Pod answered Lord Tyrion, although he kept casting looks Gendry's way. "Lord Baratheon," he nodded.

"Lord Tyrion?" Gendry tried again. "I'm sorry, but this is of some import."

The new Hand handed his cup back to Pod. "Would you mind? This appears to be empty." He faced Gendry. "A lord only a handful of weeks and already demanding things. You do learn quickly. I'm impressed, Lord Baratheon."

"No, it's not—it's not like that. I just—I need this done. Quickly."

Rolling his eyes, Lord Tyrion sighed and looked towards where Pod had gone, and then sighed again. Gendry glanced over and saw that the young man was caught in conversation with Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Thank the Gods, he had the new Hand to himself now. "What is it then? I'm newly released from my chains. I don't see what I can do for you."

"Come now, Lord Tyrion. You were just named Hand to the King of Westeros. A king that you convinced everyone sitting here to put on the—" He broke off when he realized there was no more Iron Throne. "To rule."

"That I did." Lord Tyrion conceded. "So, what do you want, Lord Baratheon?"

"A favor from the new Hand of the king." Gendry smiled. 

Lord Tyrion laughed. "And why should I do you a favor? Not even five minutes after the position was forced, yes, forced upon me."

Gendry scratched the nape of his neck where the back of his collar itched at his skin. Or maybe it was his nerves. "Well, I did save your life, didn't I?"

"Is that a question, Lord Baratheon?"

"Yes, I mean, no." Gendry was confused. Forget doing this on his own merits, he should have just made Arya do this once her brother was made king. Even if it hadn't been her brother, she would have done better than him with any of them. She wasn't a lady, but she knew how to talk to these nobles. He didn't. They always made him feel like he was stupid. He wasn't, not really. They just all thought they were better than him. Of course, they were. A fancy name and fancy clothes couldn't change that. He took a deep breath. None of that mattered, though. He had started this. He was doing it. For Arya, for their future. "I mean no. I did. I saved your life. We were with Ser Davos. You remember when we were leaving King's Landing for Dragonstone? There were those two City Guards. Pulled out my hammer and—

Lord Tyrion winced. "Yes, yes, I remember. What do you want? What can I do for you?"

Gendry took another deep breath. "I would like a private meeting with our new king. I need to speak to him about my future."

  
**HE WAS HUMMING** a wordless melody as he looked over the parapet onto the training ground. Arya wasn't there either. Gendry had spent the last three-quarters of an hour looking in all of the spots he thought she might be, asking everyone he could think to ask. He'd even found the courage to address the new Queen of the North. He may no longer be the Warden of the South and Paramount of the Stormlands, but he was still a lord, thanks to her brother. King Bran had insisted that he keep the title. For all that he had done in the fight against the Undead, he had earned the noble title, the new ruler of Westeros had told him. 

****

****

"Lord Baratheon, do you know what the definition of the word 'noble' is?" Lord Tyrion had asked him with a smile.

Shaking his head, Gendry looked at the smaller man. "Someone rich?" He guessed.

"No, it is not. Noble is the trait of showing fine personal qualities and having high moral principles and ideals." Walking over to Gendry, he patted him on the arm firmly. "Based on our brief acquaintance, I would say that you have lived up to those noble principles and ideals, so nobility undoubtedly suits you." 

Surprised by the compliment, Gendry stuttered a quick, uncertain thank you, but then couldn't help but add. "I don't—I blackmailed you for a favor! To see—" Grimacing, he broke off and took a step back, looking to the expressionless man in the wheelchair, his soon-to-be good brother, and wanted to sink into the floor.

Lord Tyrion laughed. He turned to Bran. "I think I like him." He laughed again. "He thinks that was blackmail. A dastardly act of evil! Oh, you sweet summer child." Walking over to the king, he leaned down and spoke conversationally. "Methinks your sister is going to eat this one alive."

Standing up straight, Gendry suddenly didn't care that Tyrion Lannister was the Hand of the King, the richest and probably smartest man in all of Westeros. He didn't care that he was older and greater than him in every way possible. Lord Tyrion had no right to speak about him and Arya. No one did. For the first time since he'd entered the room, since he'd even spoken to the man, his voice was firm and sure. "You know nothing about me and Arya. You know nothing about Arya Stark." 

Lord Tyrion's eyes widened. He nodded. "Fair enough. Before you walked into here requesting of our new king that he give you leave to walk away from the Wardenship of the South, the title Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Heir to Storm's End all so that you could marry his sister, Arya, the one they call the Bringer of the Dawn, the Princess who was Promised, I had no idea the girl even knew you. And in the eyes of the Seven, I am her good brother. We are family."

King Bran spoke after having been silent during most of their meeting. He looked straight at Gendry. "You can be my family." 

All three men were quiet for a long moment. Something, something in his voice, the inflection, it was… different. It didn't sound like him. It sounded almost like… It was… a memory, tingling in the back of his mind. 

"What of Storm's End, Your Grace?" Lord Tyrion interrupted Gendry's searching thoughts. "And who will be the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Warden of the South if not the young Lord Baratheon here? There was the period after Stannis died, but with things so unsettled nothing official was ever done and Storm's End has belonged to the Baratheon line since Aegon Targaryen bequeathed it to Orys Baratheon after the Conquest."

Finally the king turned his unnerving gaze away and spoke to his Hand. "There is another bastard who escaped Joffrey's rampage. His mother hid the child well. Waiting. Waiting for the right time. The time is now. A Baratheon will rule Storm's End for centuries to come." He looked back to Gendry. "It just won't be your line."

Gendry didn't know how to respond to that or even if he should. He decided it didn't matter. He had his freedom and a name. And he could be with Arya wherever she wanted to be and that was all he cared about. "Yes, Your Grace. Thank you." He bowed to them both as best as he knew now and backed away, ready to find Arya, ready to start his new life with her. 

Near two hours had passed since he had left the king's private audience room, the sun just setting, and Gendry still hadn't found her. With frustration, he closed the door to her chamber and began the walk to his own. He wanted to get out of these clothes. Shed the skin of Lord Gendry Baratheon. Maybe just Gendry would have better luck finding Arya. It didn't take long to get there. She had arranged to have her room near his. The value of being revered from one side of the kingdom to the other had its benefits. She hated it, but she still used the power it gave her when it hurt no one. 

Easing open his door, he was greeted with a most welcome sight. There she was. Arya Stark. His bride-to-be. She lay on his bed, curled up, naked as the day she was born. Her hair was undone, dark across the white pillow, her skin fair, a rosy tint blushing against the gold coverlet. He stepped closer, undoing the straps and buckles, ties and buttons of his jerkin, his boots, his pants, all the while his eyes never left her. By the time he reached the bed, he was as bare as she. Gendry sat down and the soft mattress dipped. Immediately, she woke with a start. Her eyes widened and her hand whipped under the pillow and out, her Valyrian dagger at his throat in mere seconds.

"Good eve, Gendry," she murmured with a smile and lowered the weapon. He raised an eyebrow. She shrugged. "One can never be too careful." Slipping the dagger back under the pillow, she reached up and slipped her arms around his shoulders. "Where were you?"

He pressed a quick kiss to her mouth. "Looking for you. I talked to your brother."

"I was here." He ran a hand over her belly, his finger tracing the scar, and then moved up to cup her breast. She offered up a breathy sigh. "What did you talk to Jon about?"

Feathering her nipple, he shook his head even while he concentrated on bringing her pleasure with his attention to her body. "No, not Jon. Our new king."

"Ohhh," she cried out softly. To his administrations or comment, he wasn't sure. He smiled and pushed her down. Bending over, he continued to twist the peak of her breast, while he took the other into his mouth, his lips, his tongue tasting her. She cried out softly, her hand running over his head, nails digging into his scalp. He softly bit down on the underside of her breast and then moved downward, kissing her flesh. "Gendry," she said his name, and then again and again. "Gendry, Gendry."

Her legs fell open and he settled there, his finger slipping into where it was wet and slippery between her thighs. In and out, his finger dove into her and he added another, stretching her before him. Gods, she was so beautiful. Bowing down, his tongue dipped into the pink folds and lapped up her sweet nectar. 

"Fuck, Gendry! Fuck, fuck!" Arya's hips rose, a keening moan escaped her as her leg wrapped around his back, urging him onward. "Yes, yes, yes, please, please. Gods, yes." His nose rubbed against the little nub she had showed him, and then he licked in circles against that same spot and then up and down, fast and slow, licking circles and drawing lines again and again, over and over until she wasn't saying anything that made any sense, just moaning and crying and bucking in his arms. Suddenly she screamed, her entire body went still and then she began shaking until a deep sigh escaped her and she went limp.

"Gendry," she said softly. He looked up at her from between her thighs. There was quite a bit of clean-up still to do there.

"I'm not finished here, milady." 

"Don't call me that." He laughed. She ignored him and airily waved a hand. "Well, carry on. Don't let me stop you, Gendry."

"Milord," he retorted before returning to the task at hand with pleasure. He ran his tongue from the bottom to the top of her cunt. She was delicious. Savoring her taste, he smiled and was about to take another sip when Arya suddenly stiffened and pulled her legs up, her knees pressed against her chest. She grabbed his chin.

"What do you mean, 'Milord?' You said you talked to Bran. I don't understand. Are you not—" She broke off and her hand dropped, the look on her face shuttered. "You're staying here in Westeros? You're going back to Storm's End." She angrily rose from the bed and reached for her top.

"What?! No. Arya." She was already half-dressed. "I'm coming with you. I love you! I don't want to be anywhere if I'm not with you." He got up and moved to her, but he waited for her to respond. She was so strong, so ready and willing to face any fight, any foe head-on but when it came to matters of the heart, she was more frightened than he could imagine. He didn't want to scare her off.

She let her pants drop to the floor. Turning to look at him, her expression was guarded, and she was silent for a moment. Some of the tension left her tiny frame. "Tell me then. What happened with Bran?"

"He said I was a nobleman. Said I had earned it by my actions beyond the Wall and in the fight against the Undead. He said that there was another of my father's bastards still out there that King Joffrey hadn't killed who could take Storm's End, become Warden, Lord Paramount, all of it. Said something about the Baratheon bloodline going on for generations there, but it wouldn't be mine. He said I could keep the name and the title." Gendry reached out and took her hands, holding tightly, his eyes beseeching. "I didn't think it mattered. I know that makes me a lord still. But you're a lady—"

"I'm not a—"

"Arya, for fuck's sake, you *are* a lady. You are Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell. You may not want to be one. You may not act like one. But you are. In name." She rolled her eyes and gave a huff, but he just looked at her. Finally, she nodded. "It's the same for me. I am Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End still. I don't really want to be one. I certainly don't act like one because I don't know how. But I am. In name. Don't you see?" He dropped her hands and cupped her face. "We're the same you and me. A lord and a lady, but not really."

Arya smiled. "It's not you."

Gendry nodded. "It's not me." She put her hands on his waist and leaned up, kissing him. 

"It's us." She whispered.

He pressed his forehead against hers. "Yes."

 **—THE NEXT CHAPTER: THE BOY WHO WAS LOVED** —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided two things after writing this chapter. The first was that I was going to post it as a stand-alone because I thought then (and still do) that it works as a stand-alone fic. The second is that (depending on the overall reaction to this fiction--although, frankly, the results are not very promising right now), I want to write an Arya/Gendry fic that takes their entire story from this one and puts it in chronological order along with some more connective chapters to fill in the blanks. There are one or two other couples I might do the same with. Again, it depends on the overall response to this fic. So far, it's not really looking too good. :shrugs: We'll see.


	7. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 06: Tyrion I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion spends time with Small Council members, remembers when he first heard Bran's story, learns about Bran's new visions, and writes a letter to Sansa. a.k.a. a day in the life of Tyrion Lannister, Lord Hand to King Bran, The First of His Name.
> 
>  **Characters** : Tyrion Lannister, Bran Stark, Bronn Trystane, Ellaria Sand (Very Minor) Wyman Manderly, Samwell Tarly  
>  **Relationships** : Tyrion & Bran, Tyrion & Bronn, (Minor) Tyrion/Sansa
> 
> * * *

**** THE BOY WHO WAS LOVED  
** **

**IT WAS A** rare Small Council meeting Bran did not attend. Despite that, business was handled with the same rigor as it would be if their king were present. Naturally, there were a few differences. For one there was the decided lack of tension. Which was nice. Tyrion himself was comfortable with the oddity that was the Three-Eyed Raven who was also the King of Westeros. Mostly comfortable. Although he had worked out the overall idea of the thing, he didn't still understand quite precisely just what the Three-Eyed Raven was.  
  
Bran had clarified the details of his transformation while they sat beside the fireside the night before the Battle for the Dawn, the night he told Tyrion the story of his journey, of all that he had given up bringing the various players the knowledge needed to defeat the Night King, to save humanity. Then he hadn't known why it was important that he not only heard his story, but that he grasped enough of what Bran was telling him to recognize not only his power, but his sacrifice. Bran knew. Bran knew that it mattered because it would help save not only his life in the coming weeks but would put help put Bran on the throne and according to his new king, his reign would lead to a century of peace.  
  
But Tyrion knew none of this that night. It was just another where he could not sleep, waiting for another battle that would likely mean his death.  
  
**—FOUR MOONS BEFORE—**  
  
"Explain this thing to me. The Three-Eyed Raven?" Tyrion asked, still trying to wrap his head around the idea of this young man in a wheelchair who spoke with an unnerving lack of emotion with such knowledge about so many things and tie him to the precocious boy he met so many years ago.  
  
"Not 'it.' Me. I am the Three-Eyed Raven. Too soon, I wasn't ready, but I had to be because he was killed when the White Walkers attacked the cave."  
  
Tyrion laughed. "I'm sorry, Bran, but you've completely lost me."  
  
The young man looked into the fire as if gathering his thoughts. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was the first normal thing that Tyrion had seen him do since the two had sat down together. It was a relief actually. Bran opened his eyes and looked to Tyrion. "It is important that you understand what I'm telling you."  
  
"It's just a story to pass the night before we all probably die, my boy."  
  
"No." He sounded so sure of himself as if he absolutely knew. There was no doubt, no uncertainty in his voice. "You must understand." And then he smiled. "You will."  
  
"I will." It wasn't a question Tyrion asked, but it almost was. Bran's smile widened and he began to explain.  
  
"First you need to know truly what a greenseer is. A greenseer is one who can perceive events in the past or the future in dreams. It's a magical ability. The Three-Eyed Raven was an ancient and very powerful greenseer. The most powerful of all. He could see past, future and present visions easily. He could also travel through time to see these events. After Theon took Winterfell and I left, I had a choice. I could have joined Jon two different times, but that wasn't the path I was meant to take. I could have gone with Rickon to the Great Hearth. But, again, that wasn't my path. I needed to go to the Three-Eyed Raven. When your brother pushed me from the tower window," Tyrion winced, but the young man showed no emotion, no pain, no anger. He merely recited the event as a matter of fact, continuing on with the result of the horrific action with the same emotionless tone. “I lost use of my legs, but I gained the ability of a greenseer. I also gained the ability to warg and eventually skinchange. Do you know what those are?"  
  
Tyrion shook his head, letting go of what his sibling did to concentrate on what the young Stark was saying that he could do. His mind was a'whirl, trying to take in the inconceivability of it all. It simply wasn't possible. True, he had heard of greenseers before. But they were in the same realm as grumpkins and snarks... and giants and dead things coming back to life. He ran a hand over his beard and sighed. So, yes, it was possible. Very possible indeed.  
  
Bran correctly interpreting his sigh simply nodded and continued, that same unaffected voice carrying on his remarkable story. "A warg is a human who can send his consciousness into the mind of a wolf. Once in that wolf, he can see through its eyes and control it. Beyond a warg is a skinchanger, who can enter the consciousness of any animal. At first, I just skinchanged into my direwolf, Summer, but eventually I realized I was able to skinchange into any animal and humans as well, including my helper, Hodor."  
  
Tyrion's eyes went wide at the idea of a human entering the mind of another. _Could it truly be possible?_ And on Bran Stark spoke. "I can also skinchange into multiple animals and through their eyes I can see what is going on in different parts of Westeros. I know what the Night King is doing, where he is at. That is how I was able to tell Jon and Sansa his movements. I skinchanged into ravens throughout the North."  
  
"The Three-Eyed Raven," Tyrion murmured as his mighty brain worked to digest all that Bran had told him. "You're saying me that your mind can take over… as in literally take over an animal, many animals at once, and control them? All of them? At the same time?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And a human? You can just enter a man's mind and control him, his mind, his body? Tell him to take a drink, take a piss, kill someone? You can do that?"  
  
"No."  
  
"I—what? I don't understand. You just said—"  
  
Bran was silent. Tyrion was silent. And then. "Explain please."  
  
"Not any man or any woman. The human has to be of a weak mind. I couldn't control you. You're too strong. I couldn't control Jon or Sansa or Arya or Daenerys Targaryen. Or Brienne of Tarth. I could have skinchanged into Petyr Baelish. He wasn't as nearly as strong as he believed he was. The relationship between my sisters needed to be strengthened and his attempt to tear them apart created a bond that had never been. Had I interfered that never would have happened." He gave the barest of shrugs. "There are others here in Winterfell I could control, but it's not necessary, and I don't like to do it. I don't want to do it."  
  
"I see." Tyrion sat back in his chair, going back over everything that Bran had told him thus far. It all seemed too fantastical to be true, but then so did dragons breathing fire once more and White Walkers and things that had come back to life and yet here they were. He was not going to dismiss out of a hand a Three-Eyed Raven who could see past, present and future events near and far. A thought struck him. "You said that you are the Three-Eyed Raven, but you also referred to 'him.'"  
  
"As I said, my path was to go to the Three-Eyed Raven. I needed to learn from him to become him. To become the new Three-Eyed Raven. He was teaching me how to use my gifts, the ability to greensight, to skinchange, but I made a fatal mistake."  
  
Tyrion leaned forward. "What was that?"  
  
"The Night King has greenseer abilities as well and he saw me when I was there watching him with his army. He came to me and he touched my arm." Bran pulled back his sleeve and showed Tyrion a mark, a handprint burned into the young man's flesh. "I was a careless fool." For the first time since they had spoken, Tyrion heard emotion in his voice, not much, but a tinge of regret. "I had gone looking for the Night King myself while the Three-Eyed Raven slept. I thought I could handle it myself. I thought I knew enough." Bran looked at Tyrion. "I did not."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"The Three-Eyed Raven told me that with his mark on me, the Night King would always find me and where we were, this cave where he had been for nearly a century was no longer safe." Bran looked away. "He hadn't moved so long that his body had become one with the Weirwood Tree. He couldn't leave and it was only a matter of time before the Night King sent some of his soldiers to kill him, to kill me." A bitterness edged his tone, just a trace, but in the silence surrounding them, Tyrion heard it. "I had killed him with my recklessness."  
  
Shaking his head, Tyrion placed a hand on Bran's knee. "You didn't know."  
  
"No, I didn't know. I was young and stupid and foolish. But I had to know. I had to know everything to become the Three-Eyed Raven. He had to teach me as much as he could before they came." He looked at Tyrion and for a moment, just the barest, briefest of moments, Tyrion could see that young, stupid, foolish boy and he was so full of anguish. Then he was gone and the emotionless Three-Eyed Raven sat before him. "He taught me all he could, crammed as much knowledge, as much training, so much, so much that I lost who I was."  
  
Tyrion understood what he was saying. "You lost Brandon Stark."  
  
"Most of him, yes. I didn't have time to preserve a space for the boy that Eddard and Catelyn Stark loved. I didn't have time to merge the two, Bran Stark and the Three-Eyed Raven."  
  
"Bran—"  
  
The young man cut him off, staring intently into the flames, but his voice once again held no emotion. "I had to decide who was more important. The Lord of Winterfell who couldn't walk, who would always be looked down upon, seen as weak for his lack, or the Three-Eyed Raven who could fly, who would help save the realm of men, all of humanity." He turned back to Tyrion. "There was truly no choice."  
  
"I don't think you lost Brandon Stark. Sitting before me is the son of Ned and Catelyn as I knew them. A son they would be very proud to call theirs. Because that son knew there was only one choice to make."  
  
Bran blinked.  
  
"If all you say is true about the Three-Eyed Raven, and I imagine you have quite a bit more to tell me about this journey of yours, then you are still adjusting to this black bird that resides in there, Brandon Stark. Once you do, the Stark within you will rise up and have its say. You Starks are a resilient bunch."  
  
  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**  
  
Sure enough, small signs of Bran Stark were beginning to peek through. For one thing, his king had a sly sense of humor as well as compassion when those he cared about were in pain. Alas, the rest of the Council—with perhaps the exception of Samwell Tarly, the Grandmaester—didn't see what Tyrion did. They only saw the Three-Eyed Raven, and they couldn't contain their unease when Bran would casually speak of things that he ought not know but obviously did. And how he spoke so often with little emotion as if he didn't care at all, even when that he spoke of was of loss of life, of destruction, of calamity. It was unnerving to say the least.  
  
When Bran was present at meetings, aside from the unwanted tension, the one other thing held in check was the treatment of the Master of War, Ellaria Sand. Without their king there, the Small Council—other than Bronn—found it completely unnecessary to hide their loathing for the woman. She was a child-killer. Every time she spoke, every time she was addressed, she received little respect, not from this lot. Certainly not from him. The woman had killed his niece. Myrcella. So lovely, so innocent. He had sent her to Dorne. It was his decision to do so when he was the acting Hand in King's Landing thus, he had played a part in her death. He would never forgive himself for that. Or Ellaria Sand, she who had done the deed herself.  
  
"Would have Cersei just killed her," he said softly to himself as he cast a glance her way.  
  
"Lord Tyrion? What was that?" Lord Wyman Manderly, Davos' temporary replacement as Master of Ships asked, his voice breaking through Tyrion's thoughts.  
  
Tyrion straightened up and looked to the man, the Lord of White Harbor, Lord Lamprey they called him, one of the nicer names. A fool and a craven people thought him because of his physical appearance, fat and jolly, but Tyrion knew better than anyone that appearances could be deceiving. He'd listened enough to Manderly in these meetings and talked to the man to know that he was intelligent and cunning, and fiercely loyal to House Stark, and thus Brandon Stark, their king.  
  
"Nothing, woolgathering for a moment. You were saying…"  
  
Manderly laughed, a joyous, hearty laugh that brought a genuine smile from Tyrion. "No one said a word, my Lord Hand. We were waiting for you to tell us if we have any further business to discuss."  
  
"No." Tyrion pushed himself away from the table and stood up. "No, we do not." He looked at each member accordingly, "Lord Manderly, Ser Lady Brienne," he nodded, and the somber lady knight returned the nod. He spared a thought as he almost always did, _if only Jaime had more time with her, he might have lived, she might have broken the hold that Cersei had on him. If only._ Tyrion shook his head, dispelling that notion for the fantasy that it was, and looked to the sullen Grandmaester Samwell Tarly who was already gathering his papers. Ever since his wife had left with Ser Davos, the excitable, happy fellow he had met in Winterfell had disappeared leaving only a shadow of that man. "Grandmaester."  
  
"By your leave, Lord Tyrion," Tarly said quietly and then departed. Tyrion sighed and looked to Bronn as the others aside from him took that as their cue to leave as well. The illustrious Lord Trystane caught Ellaria Sand before she left and Tyrion moved closer, listening to their conversation. It wasn't that he didn't trust Bronn. It was that he didn't trust her. And, well, if truth were to be told, he didn't exactly trust Bronn either.  
  
"How are you doing?" Bronn asked with what sounded like genuine concern in his voice. Tyrion rolled his eyes. He knew that his friend had a care for the daughter that she had lost but this was laying it on a bit thick.  
  
"Same as I was yesterday," she responded, not giving much back.  
  
Bronn nodded, "That good." He leaned in closer, "Tyrion doesn't trust you."  
  
She scoffed, "I don't trust him. He's a Lannister." She practically spat his name. Tyrion sighed. As much as he despised the woman, he couldn't blame her for that one.  
  
Apparently neither could Bronn. "True. He doesn't understand why you didn't go back to Dorne when you were found alive in the dungeons."  
  
And that was enough. If Bronn was going to have a conversation with the woman and talk about and for him then he was damn well going to speak up. "Tyrion can speak for himself. Why didn't you go back to Dorne?"  
  
Ellaria didn't respond at first and then she took a deep breath and looked away from him, as if looking at something, someone who wasn't even there. "Dorne... is Oberyn. And Tyene. They are gone."  
  
Tyrion felt no pity for her. He might have at one time. Had he not been feeling so sorry for himself when Oberyn died after Gregor Clegane snatched victory right out of the jaws of defeat due to the Prince of Dorne's thirst for revenge and his own hubris. But the Mountain did because the Red Viper did and so he died, and thus Tyrion was sentenced to death and his sorrow was for himself rather than Ellaria and her dead lover. Alas… Speaking of dead loved ones. "As is Myrcella."  
  
"Yes." She looked down, and he was surprised to read guilt on her face. "And I paid the price for that." She finally looked at Tyrion. "Do you have children?"  
  
"No, I spent my seed outside of the women I lay with." Realizing he revealed his celibate state by speaking in the past, he changed the subject. "How did you survive again? I was never told." Although, he was fairly certain he knew how. After all, Jessup had been imprisoned in the cells of King's Landing as well and for much longer.  
  
"Perhaps because it was none of your business," she snapped.  
  
"I am the Hand of the King. That makes it my business." Tyrion's retort was sharp. He didn't like that she wasn't still in a cell or hadn't been executed for murdering his niece. The fact that the woman was in a position of power on the Small Council confounded him, but his king insisted that there was a reason he had placed her there. That she had suffered for her crime, that she still suffered and would for the rest of her life. And Tyrion trusted Bran implicitly, therefore he accepted this woman, this child-killer as the Master of War on their governing body, but by the Old Gods and the New, he was the Hand of the King and she would show him some respect.  
  
"If it was so, I imagine you would have been told before now." She replied airily, a mocking smile curving her lips.  
  
Tyrion sighed. Or not. He pressed on and decided to just ignore her insolence. "So... how did you survive?"  
  
Narrowing her eyes, Ellaria glared at him, but she responded. "Your sadistic sister made sure that I was given water and food while chained up. Just enough to stay alive while I watched my daughter die and her body rot in front of my eyes. By the time Daenerys was destroying this city, at least the smell had faded from her decaying corpse.  
  
"That does sound like Cersei." It was also quite the punishment for what she did to Myrcella as Bran would certainly have known. Tyrion nodded, a finger to his lips as he looked up at her and finished his thought on her survival, "and with the structural integrity of the Red Keep as sound as it is and the dungeon cells being below ground–"  
  
Ellaria interrupted, "when survivors were searched for my cell was intact. I had been fed and watered the morning it all happened. Lucky me."  
  
"Yes, lucky you." He gave her a piercing look. "Lucky that King Bran is a generous and forgiving man."  
  
After being silent for so long, Bronn decided to join the conversation. "Don't have much sympathy for our Master of War, do you, Lord Lannister?"  
  
Without looking away from their Master of War, Tyrion answered him. "She killed my niece. My niece who never harmed anyone in her entire life. Her all-too short life. She was a sweet girl. Nothing like her mother. No, I don't have much sympathy." He held her gaze for one more hard moment and then sighed, looking away. "But needs must, our king believes you can do good here in the new Westeros. I don't trust you, but he does. That is what matters."  
  
"And I don't trust you, Lannister." She responded, but for the first time there wasn't bite in her words, instead weariness. That was an improvement.  
  
"Excellent, we have that in common. Good day, Mistress Sand." She looked at him for a long searching moment and then quietly left without another word, her colorful skirt flowing behind her, the only remnant of her Dornish heritage she still retained.  
  
Bronn looked after her and then back at Tyrion. "There's another one who doesn't like you."  
  
Frowning, Tyrion mused. "A lot of people don't like me. I wonder sometimes if it actually is me that's the problem.  
  
  
**AS HE GAZED** out the window of Bran's private chambers, Tyrion tapped his foot in a steady rhythm against the foot of the chair. Finally, he looked back to his king. "You're telling me that the Mad King raped my Aunt Genna when she first came to King's Landing?"  
  
Bran nodded.  
  
"After she was presented to the court by my father on the eve of his wedding?"  
  
Again, Bran nodded.  
  
"You must be wrong." Tyrion shook his head. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, I know these visions, I know you have them, and they are supposed to be of events that happened, but this simply cannot be. If it happened when you say it happened, my father was the King's Hand, and he and Aerys were like brothers. My father was one of the only people that Aerys trusted even at that age. He wouldn't have—Pfft. No, besides, Aunt Genna was betrothed to—"  
  
"Eammon Frey. Yes. She told Aerys that she was betrothed. He did not care." Bran stared unblinkingly at Tyrion. "I didn't realize this would upset you so. I apologize."  
  
"You didn't realize? This is my—Aunt Genna is one of the only members of my family outside of Jaime whoever treated me with any kindness. She defended me to my father, her own brother. Of course, I'm upset. Not to mention, it's a terrible thing! Yes, yes, Your Grace, I'm upset by this. It simply cannot be."  
  
"Yet it is."  
  
"No." Tyrion got up and walked to the window, looking out over the Red Keep where repairs were ongoing after Daenerys' destruction. Yet another gift from the Targaryen dynasty.  
  
"Tyrion, your aunt was a brilliant woman."  
  
"I know that." Tyrion bit out. "Had she been in charge, she would have ruled the Lannister House just as efficiently but with much less cruelty than my father."  
  
Bran sighed, and the anger that Tyrion was feeling slid away because that sigh meant that the Stark in him was coming through. He was genuinely sorry and if he felt that way, it was only because what he was saying was absolutely true and he knew that the knowledge troubled Tyrion and that upset Bran. "I could sense what she was thinking. She knew that if she fought him, if she screamed, it would likely ruin her, and House Lannister and she would still be raped. But if she submitted, she could save herself, her name, her honor and her entire House, so she did. She was remarkable. I wish that I had known her."  
  
Turning to face him, Tyrion nodded. "You would have liked her. Everyone who knew her did. She was gone too soon. At least it was a peaceful death. More than I can say for most Lannisters." He shook his head. "But why? Why, Bran? Why did you have to see it at all?"  
  
"That wasn't the only vision I had."  
  
"You had another with Aunt Genna?" Tyrion reached for a decanter and goblet. "I need a drink."  
  
Bran shook his head. "No, that was the only one with a Lannister, but not a Targaryen." Tyrion stopped mid-pour and looked at his king. "A different Targaryen, from the very, very distant past."  
  
Setting the wine down, Tyrion took his half-filled cup and sat in the chair once more. "Do tell." He took a sip.  
  
"Aegon the Conqueror's father, Aerion Targaryen, was in a homestead in the North where Winterfell would one day stand chasing a young woman, a Stark. Her name was Marya. He caught her at the Weirwood Tree. They were in love."  
  
"And…"  
  
"And that is all I saw."  
  
"Who is Marya Stark?"  
  
"I have no idea. The Stark Family Tree begins with the man I'm named after, Brandon Stark, Bran the Builder. The man who is known to have built Winterfell and this took place before Winterfell stood. Bran the Builder, Winterfell was before Aegon and his sisters conquered Westeros. This Targaryen is Aegon's father and he is young, younger than when he had Aegon."  
  
Tyrion's jaw dropped as what Bran was saying finally connected and his goblet slipped from his hand, wine spilling onto the carpet. "Are you telling me that a Targaryen and a Stark? Before Rhaegar and Lyanna? Before the Age of Conquest? Aegon Targaryen's father?!"  
  
"Yes." He said it so simply. Tyrion was simply in disbelief. Had Westeros known of the relationship, let alone the marriage, between Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, it would have sent shockwaves throughout all of Westeros. And to find out that there was potentially a union previously unknown between the Targaryens and the Starks before there was ever a Seven Kingdoms of Westeros was, well, it was very intriguing to say the least.  
  
"What does this all mean? What happened to my Aunt Genna and this revelation about Aegon Targaryen's father and this Stark before the roots of the Family Tree were planted?"  
  
Bran cocked his head slightly. "That I don't know."  
  
"You—you don't know, Your Grace?"  
  
"No. Firstly, I don't have the complete story in either event. I know there is more to know. I've tried to force the tale to come to me, but it hasn't yet. There's a reason. I imagine it isn't necessary for me to know yet with everything that is happening in the now. Secondly, this feels rather like when I first saw my father and Howland Reed defeat Arthur Dayne in the Red Mountains of Dorne when he was looking for my Aunt Lyanna after she had run off with Rhaegar Targaryen."  
  
"Ah," Tyrion nodded, setting his cup back on the table beside him as he remembered that part of the tale Bran had told him before the battle at Winterfell. Although of course he had left out a few pertinent details. Namely the fact that his Aunt Lyanna had given birth to Rhaegar's child, another Aegon Targaryen who the world would know as Ned's bastard son, Jon Snow. Tyrion looked back to Bran who was still speaking.  
  
"I was shown what had happened in moments, given the story in bits. I didn't realize until many moons after I had first witnessed my first vision that I learned my father had come upon my aunt after giving birth to not my brother, but my cousin, Jon. And that he wasn't Jon at all, but another Aegon Targaryen." Yes, that bit of the story. It was important.  
  
"I see. It took time to all come together. You weren't shown everything in one fell swoop?" Bran shook his head. "And once you get the full story, you'll understand." Tyrion stood up and began to refill his goblet.  
  
"Maybe." Tyrion stopped and looked back to Bran who continued. "I didn't know why I had been shown Jon's true parentage even when I learned the truth of it."  
  
"Of course you did. So that he would know he was not a bastard but was instead the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark."  
  
'No."  
  
"No?" Tyrion finished filling his wine, this time to the top and sat back down. "Then please explain, Your Grace. If not to let Jon know who he was, why?"  
  
"My brother didn't care. He was long past caring if he was a bastard or not. He was comfortable in who he was. And while Rhaegar Targaryen may have been his father in seed, Ned Stark is his father in every other way. If finding out Jon's true parentage was just about Jon learning that information, I would have never been shown the truth of it. It wasn't until Daenerys Targaryen laid fire upon King's Landing even after the bells rang that it was clear to me."  
  
Tyrion took a deep drink of his wine, took a deep breath, raised a quizzical brow and said only his king's name in the form of a question because he did not understand.  
  
"You have heard the saying about Targaryens? Madness or Greatness?"  
  
"Yes. Varys said it often. 'Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.' Alas, we saw where it landed with Daenerys." Tyrion finished sadly. He would never stop mourning what could have been. He had held such high, high hopes for his Dragon Queen.  
  
Bran was quiet for a moment and then to Tyrion's surprise spoke softly. "I'm sorry. I know that you loved her. You believed in her."  
  
"I did." Tyrion gave a quick shake of his head. "You were saying… madness, greatness and why you learned of Jon's true parentage."  
  
"Yes. I knew that Jon was in fact next in line to the Iron Throne. I also knew that Samwell Tarly, more like a brother to Jon than myself, had also learned that Rhaegar and Lyanna were secretly wed. Due to their bonds of brotherhood, Jon would believe him when he told him that. Jon, because of the man that he is, would in turn tell the Dragon Queen. I also knew that Jon, first and foremost a Stark, would tell his sisters and that Sansa—who did not trust Daenerys—would tell you. You would tell your fellow advisor, Varys. And Varys would send his little birds flying. The secret would be out."  
  
Raising his hands in confusion, Tyrion had to ask. "But why... what does any of that have to do with—Bran, this still goes back to Jon learning the truth of it."  
  
Bran shook his head. "No, because Jon didn't care in that way. It didn't change anything for him beyond his personal relationship with Daenerys and that didn’t affect Westeros. The only person this information changed things for beyond their romance was Daenerys Targaryen. Because madness or greatness, what side of the coin would it land for her when she was pushed to the breaking point? Having lost two of her three dragons or children as she considered them, her lover, her closest confidants in Jorah Mormont and Missandei, her trust in you and Varys, the love and adulation of the masses that she had received in the East and that she had been told to expect in Westeros. What would she do? Westeros needed to know. You needed to know. Jon needed to know. For all of us."  
  
Tyrion was silent for a long time. He raised his goblet to his lips. He finished off the wine. He started to speak. He reconsidered. Rising, he picked up the decanter and refilled his cup. He sat back down. He took another long drink. And then another. He finally looked at Bran. "For all of us. We needed to know. And madness it was. I see." He sighed. "And that is why you saw."  
  
"Yes." Bran paused. "So, I don't know what these new visions mean. Why they matter. How they are connected, but coming together as they did, I do believe that they are connected somehow."  
  
Tyrion nodded. "So, what do we do?"  
  
"We?" Bran smirked. That cheeky slyness coming out. "We do nothing. I? I wait until I see more."  
  
Tyrion grinned. "Too bad you can't just conjure up any vision at will."  
  
"Not always, no, but I do remember things I have seen." And he smiled and for some reason, Tyrion felt like that smile was an invitation for something. For what, he wasn't sure.  
  
"Well, of course you do," he responded cautiously.  
  
Bran was perfectly still and silent for a moment and then there it was, his offer. But it was more than an offer or an invitation. It was a gift, the greatest he had ever received. "Like your mother. You have no memories of her, do you?"  
  
He could not have controlled the tremble in his voice for all the gold in the world. "You've... you have seen my mother?" He was a man grown who had lived too many years, suffered too much, caused too much suffering and yet in that moment, he felt like a babe. Not only had he no memories of his mother, the only ones he'd ever been told were ones of pain and suffering. They were of how he had killed her, of how he had robbed his father and sister of her in their life. Cersei would tell him of his mother weeping, of her pain and how if she had lived that the rest of her life would have been like that because she had borne such a monster as him. Jaime never talked of Joanna Lannister at all.  
  
"Would you like to hear about her?"  
  
Tyrion was quiet for a moment, gathering himself, trying to speak over the emotion welling within him. "Yes, yes. I would like that very much."  
  
  
**HE HAD SEARCHED** for Pod, and then Bronn as a secondary option, but neither was available and Tyrion was bursting to share all he had learned with someone that he cared for, someone that he believed cared for him. He found himself pacing back and forth in his room, the urge to spew forth all that he learned from Bran rising like a tide within him. Forget all he had done for the realm of men, how he had helped to save humanity, his plans to rebuild a better, stronger Westeros. Tyrion would love King Bran, the first of his name, and serve him faithfully until the day he died for what he had given him that day. He loved Brandon Stark like a brother.  
  
Tyrion stopped still. He was his brother by law. Because in the eyes of the Seven, as Bran had pointed out, Sansa Stark was still his wife. Sansa. He would tell Sansa. She, better than Pod, Bronn, or anyone he knew would understand family and what this meant. He rushed to sit down. His chamber was dark by this time, but there were plenty of candles on his desk, and one by one he lit them to bring forth a golden glow as he sat down to compose his letter to the Queen of the North, his wife.

_"Dear Sansa,  
  
Or should I say: "Your Grace?" Do let me know if you feel I'm being impudent by addressing you so informally. I've had quite the day. Quite the last couple of weeks. What has happened since I last wrote you? Well, you know that Davos and Gilly, Samwell Tarly's wife, left to join your sister and her husband on their journey West of Westeros. Normally that wouldn't affect me much, but Gods, our Grandmaester has been such a gloomy silent bore since his wife left. If you had told me that I would miss his talking, I would not have believed you because, trust me, Sansa, that man can talk a lot. And, yes, I quite understand the irony in that statement coming from me. I shouldn't concern myself with the man's marriage, but I do long for her return if it will cheer the fellow up.  
  
Of course, I'm sure your brother knows. Your brother, that would be Bran the Brave. Yes, yes, I'm well aware that it is you who has been sending out minstrels and bards across the Riverlands and Southlands with that new moniker. Not too keen on Bran the Broken, I take it. Fair enough. In my defense, I was literally fighting in my defense at the time. Forgive me for not coming up with a better name for your soon-to-be crowned brother, the king. Truth be told, I didn't actually believe everyone assembled would go for it. I am glad they did. I wasn't happy at the time, of course, that Bran named me his Hand. But I'm happy for it now.  
  
There are times I fear I've bit off more than I can handle. He's an odd one, your brother, but there's more of the son your father and mother raised in there than I believe even he realizes. I quite like him actually. And today, Sansa, today, your brother gave me a gift beyond compare. He told me about my mother. He told me how happy she was when she found out she was going to have another child… me, I was that child. He told me how she would rub her belly as it grew bigger and bigger with me and she would sing me songs. She told me every day how much she loved me. She would always love me.  
  
And, Sansa, your brother told me that I am named Tyrion because it was what my mother wanted to call me. She named me. Jaime was Father's choice, but I was hers. She knew about me when I was born too. And she still loved me. Father always told me that the only reason he didn't drown me when I was born is because I was a Lannister. He lied. He would have done that had it not been for my mother's dying request. She held me in her arms just once before she was gone. Me, such an ugly, misshapen creature, but she held me tenderly and she called me beautiful even as she was bleeding to death. Even as she was dying. She held me and told me she loved me.  
  
Father wanted to rip me from her arms and bash my brains out right there, but with her dying breath, my mother begged him to let me live. "He's my son," she told him. "He's my Tyrion, my baby boy. I love him. Don't kill him, Tywin. If you love me, you will let him live." And so because for all of his cruel ways, he did love my mother, he let me live because my mother loved me.  
  
All this your brother told me. And I have never been a happier man than I was today. My mother loved me. My mother fought for me. My mother saved my life. I was loved."_

Tyrion closed his eyes, remembering that conversation again, how vividly Bran had painted every word, every action and knew it all to be true. A sense of peace and belonging had filled him, such that he had never experienced before. He smiled and picked up his quill once more.

_"Enough about me, how are things with you? You have what you've always wanted. You are the Queen of the Kingdom. It's not the Kingdom of Westeros, but even better, it's the Kingdom of your home, the North. Do tell me how it is, what is it like? For me personally, I never understood the fascination with wanting to be on the throne. I always found it much more exciting running things behind the throne, but that is me. Yes, again, talking about myself. You, you, how are YOU?  
  
Have you heard anything of Dorne? Yes, I’m talking politics, but I am the Hand of the King, after all. There has been some chatter on our end. It is likely just directed towards Westeros and may not affect you in the North at all, but if you hear anything, the King, YOUR BROTHER, would most appreciate any word.  
  
Speaking of brothers, have you heard from Jon? Is he still beyond the Wall? I hope he is doing well. He deserves peace and some spot of happiness for all he went through, all he suffered and lost, and all he did for all of us.  
  
As always, I do hope you are doing well. I find that after seeing you and then departing, I miss our talks. You have grown into a remarkable woman. I know you are busy as you have an entire kingdom to rule but do write back when you have the time. I do appreciate receiving your letters.  
  
Yours, Tyrion."_

He read back over the letter once, and satisfied with its contents, sealed it. As he set it aside to be sent, grateful that they were in a time of peace once more so a raven could carry the missive, he mused on the fact that he hadn't thought and rethought over every line, making sure he didn't reveal anything that could hurt himself or even worse, Bran. When he reread the letter, it was just a quick perusal and more to see if had missed anything. If the letter did fall into someone's hands, all they would learn is that Tyrion Lannister, the demon monkey of Casterly Rock, was a boy who was loved. What a marvel that would be! No one would believe it.  
  
Tyrion couldn't help but smile. But Sansa would. And that is why he told her, and thinking of his words to her, he was glad that he hadn't been able to find Pod or, Gods forbid, Bronn. What had happened in the crypt in Winterfell had bonded them in an unexpected way. Tyrion simply had no fear that she would undermine or betray him or anyone in the Kingdom of Westeros in a way that would hurt Bran. He trusted Sansa completely. Perhaps he shouldn't, and yet he did.

**—THE NEXT CHAPTER: THE MAN WHO LIVED WITH GHOSTS—**


	8. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 07: Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon reflects on his past loves, and his family as he tries to adjust to life beyond the Wall. (Yup, there be flashbacks.)
> 
>  **Characters** : Jon Snow, Tormund Giantsbane, Ygritte, Daenerys Targaryen, Arya Stark, Gendry Baratheon  
>  **Relationships** : Jon/Ygritte, Jon/Daenerys, Arya/Gendry, Jon & Arya, Jon & Tormund
> 
> * * *

**** THE MAN WHO LIVED WITH GHOSTS  
** **

**THEY HAD TAKEN** up in Mance Rayder's encampment. It was far from the South—as Tormund and the rest of the Freefolk called anything in Westeros beyond the Wall, or what was left of it—but close enough that a day's ride on horseback could bring him back if need be. It had been two moons and there had been no need. As far as Jon was concerned, he didn't think there would ever be a need. He would never go further South again. His little sister, the one who loved him best and whose hair he would muss, was off sailing somewhere only the Gods knew. His brother was the King of Westeros now and had sentenced him to die here. And Sansa… she was one he wasn't ready to think about yet. They were his only family left and they had as much need of him as he did them. Robb and Rickon were gone. The man who raised him was dead. As was the mother who had borne him and her husband, his real father.  
  
Jon scoffed. Real father, he thought. As if putting seed in some woman's belly makes a man a father. Robert Baratheon was Gendry's real father and yet in the few years that Davos Seaworth had known him, he had been more a father to him than the drunken lout of a man that Jon had seen those few days in Winterfell before their entire world had been turned upside down. Gendry had never known King Robert, just as Jon had never known Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, or his mother, Lyanna Stark, the woman he believed his aunt up until five moons ago.  
  
And he had come to realize it simply didn't matter. The knowing. Not for him. When he was younger and he first truly realized what being a Snow and not a Stark meant, it had been so important to him finding out whom his mother was. It would have changed everything for him. He was wrong. When he found out the truth of it all, it only confirmed everything he knew about Ned Stark, which in turn told him that everything he believed about himself was right and true. Lord Eddard Stark was indeed as honorable as Jon had always thought him, and honorable is the man that Ned had raised him to be, and so he was. Finding out that Ned wasn't actually his father didn't change his love and respect for the man. Rather, it increased it. And it didn't change anything about the people that Jon loved, those that were his family. Ned Stark was still his father in every way that counted. Arya, Sansa, Bran, Rickon, and Robb were still his brothers and sisters. The only change was that, instead of his aunt, Lyanna Stark was now his mother.  
  
That woman had always been a mysterious figure to him. He wanted to know if she was alive or dead, if she knew about him, if she cared. If she was alive, did she want anything to do with him? He had those answers now and it was satisfying to know that she did love him, wanted to protect him. However, this knowledge didn't change who he was as a man. In the end, it didn't matter because at the heart of who he was he wasn't the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. He wasn't Aegon Targaryen; he was Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard son. And he was proud of the man that Ned Stark had made him.  
  
He had realized that well before Sam told him who his parents were.  
  
  
**—FIVE YEARS AGO—**  
  
Ygritte lay cuddled up next to him. He had teased earlier that she only lay so close to keep warm. She had told him he knew nothing. If she wanted to keep warm, she'd cover herself with blankets. She lay by him because she liked the feel of his naked body against hers. There was no ladylike delicacy with Ygritte. He liked that about her. He knew that Arya would like her too. He wondered sometimes what his father would think of her. This wild woman he had taken to his bed. This wild woman who could someday possibly bear his child. He squirmed uncomfortably next to her. Thoughts of bringing a bastard into the world always made him think of his own parentage. He knew that being illegitimate didn't matter to the Wildlings, but in Westeros…  
  
"Stop thinking so hard, Jon Snow. You're hurting my head," Ygritte commanded, and pinched his arm lightly.  
  
Ignoring the slight pressure, he glanced down at her red hair and said what was on his mind. "Do you know who your mother and father are?"  
  
"What a stupid question that is."  
  
"So you don't." He wasn't surprised. The Wildlings seemed more communal when it came to family.  
  
She jerked her head back. "Of course I do."  
  
"Oh, where are they?" Now he was surprised because she had sounded almost offended that he thought she didn't know. He sighed heavily. It seemed as if he was always saying the wrong thing to these Wildlings.  
  
"They're dead."  
  
He threw a hand over his face, closing his eyes in mortification. "Ygritte, I'm sorry."  
  
"Why are you sorry, did you kill them?" She leaned up on an elbow and looked down at him. "You might have, you were a Crow. Did you kill my mother and father?"  
  
"What? No, no. I don't think I did. The only Wil-Freefolk I killed you know about. It was when we met." He had to remind himself that they were Freefolk. They were free. Wild, yes, but free.  
  
Ygritte laughed. "Of course you didn't, Jon Snow. My parents died when I was but a child. You were still in your fancy castle." She rolled on her side and laid a hand on his face. He turned to her. "Why do you ask these stupid questions?"  
  
Looking into her clear gaze, he returned to the question at the forefront of his mind. "You know who I am?"  
  
She rolled her eyes. "You ask a lot of stupid questions, Jon Snow."  
  
Grinning at her response, he supplied the answer anyway. "I'm Lord Eddard Stark's bastard."  
  
"Aye, you told me, and I don't care about any of that Southern nonsense."  
  
"It's not Southe—" He broke off realizing that what was Southern to him was not the same to the Freefolk. And he knew that being a bastard meant nothing to her and for that he was grateful. "I know he's my father, but I don't know who my mother is."  
  
Ygritte stared at him and Jon waited for her to say something. He waited for her to offer some measure of comfort. Something. Instead, she sighed heavily. "And?"  
  
"And that's it." He shifted uncomfortably when she remained silent and began to wish that he had never said anything. Finally, he mumbled. "It makes me sad." Ygritte rolled her eyes and punched him in the arm. Hard. It hurt. "Ow."  
  
"Oh, Jon Snow is sad because he doesn't have a mama. Who cares?" She sat up and looked at him with a mixture of annoyance, exasperation and love. "You had a father who loved you, you had your brothers and sisters. You lived in a fancy castle with good food and fancy, warm clothes. You had a nice, big bed to sleep in, a strong roof over your head, beautiful weapons to train with, and you're complaining because 'Oh, no, I don't know who me mama is… I'm so sad, come and watch me cry! I'm Jon Snow and I don't have a mama!'"  
  
A dry chuckle escaped him. He couldn't help it when she put it that way, but then he sighed again because he wanted her to understand. "It's not like that. It's just," he tried to explain. "Shouldn't it matter?"  
  
"No," she said simply.  
  
He looked at her, his eyes wide. "Why, no?"  
  
Shrugging, Ygritte rolled her eyes. "Why, yes? Do you need someone to change your nappies?" She dug a finger into his side a few times. "Does Jon Snow need someone to change his nappies? Is that it? Do you need a mother to come and change your nappies? I won't do it, but there are plenty here who would be happy to."  
  
"No. No!" He protested, afraid that she'd drag one of the other women in there to prove her point. "I just thought it would matter."  
  
"Why?" She stopped playing around with him and grew serious. "What difference will it make in your life if you suddenly know who your father fucked to make little Jon Snow? Are you going to meet her? Are you going to find her and say 'Hello, mother, it's me, your son, Jon Snow. Change my nappy!'"  
  
"Shut up," he grumbled, truly wishing that he had never brought the subject up.  
  
Ygritte giggled and sat up, sliding one leg over his chest until she was sitting astride him. "You know who you are. You're a good man. You're your own man." She smiled her crooked, wicked smile. "You're my man."  
  
He gazed up into her fierce eyes. "You're right, it doesn't matter." He breathed heavily, the weight of her on him felt good. Her smile did things to him. Her words, her ownership made him want to own her forever.  
  
She leaned down and kissed him, long and thoroughly. "No, it doesn't matter. Now, you shut up and fuck me."  
  
He did.  
  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**  
  
Jon sat up and looked to his left. As always, the side next to him was empty. He missed Ygritte. Too many nights lately he found himself waking up and thinking of his red-haired lover and like tonight, he would ache. Out here, beyond the Wall, thoughts of her more and more filled his head. He sighed and ran a hand through his unruly curls. They had grown, almost as long as when he'd been out here with Mance Rayder and her.  
  
"Ygritte always liked my pretty curls," he said to himself, and then laughed softly. Gods, did he miss her. Even more than Dany sometimes. A wave of guilt rushed through him at that thought and he was assailed with images and memories of Daenerys Targaryen. It was like a floodgate opened reminding him of how much he loved the white-haired queen. And he was back to fiercely, desperately missing _her_ , loving _her_ , hating himself. Hating his very existence. Because of what he had done that day, her last day.  
  
And his belief that knowing the truth of who he was didn't matter fell apart because one thing did. One especially important thing. Because he knew that he was Rhaegar Targaryen's son, he lost Rhaegar's sister. Jon lost another woman he loved. He lost Daenerys Targaryen.  
  
He wanted to go back, do things differently. He wanted to go back to that cave. Ygritte's cave. Dany's cave. Pick one, stay in one forever. Never leave Ygritte's cave and never face all the death and destruction and horror that followed. In that way, both Ygritte and Dany would live. But if he stayed in Ygritte's cave, then he would have never met Dany, never loved Dany. Jon shook his head, he couldn't imagine that fate, so in his tortured mind, he chose again and this time it was Dany's cave. But, no, his conscience couldn't allow that either because then everyone would die. Arya. Sansa. Bran. Samwell. Davos. Gendry. Tyrion. Everyone. Even Dany would eventually. Because the Night King would have found them in her cave. Who knows if Arya would have succeeded without everything that Jon and Dany had done before she made her kill?  
  
Jon sighed, and threw the covers off. He couldn't sleep and the sun was up anyway. Ghost wouldn't mind a morning run. In a few minutes, he was dressed and outside. Sure enough, his direwolf was waiting patiently for him as if he had read his mind. "Good boy," Jon murmured as he knelt before the giant beast. He ran his hand over Ghost's head, and as always, paid a little extra attention to what remained of his right ear, a treat for his service. He gave him a final rub and stood up. "Let's go, boy."  
  
It was a bit earlier than Jon had realized, the sky only beginning to lighten up. The white snow as far as the eye could see made everything just a little brighter. He walked between a couple of tents quietly, Ghost shuffling softly next to him. There weren't many people up at this time, but he heard muffled laughter ahead and felt like some company to ease the ache in his mind and heart. A small copse of trees lay just beyond the fire pit and that is where the sound had come from so Jon headed that way. As he got closer, he spied a young couple pressed against a heart tree, talking softly and letting loose an occasional giggle between kisses. They both had dark hair. She was small, and he enveloped her in his cloak, wrapping her tightly in his embrace.  
  
Jon stopped, not wanting to interrupt any longer. He had already turned away when the girl spoke clearly.  
  
"I don't care if they catch us."  
  
Looking back at them, Jon was suddenly reminded of another young couple, dark of hair, exchanging secret kisses in a Godswood, the maiden unconcerned about discovery.  
  
**—FIVE MOONS AGO—**  
  
The sun was about to set when Jon headed towards the Weirwood Tree. He hadn't been there since he had first seen Arya upon his return to Winterfell. He'd either been too busy, or he knew that Bran was there doing whatever it was Bran did when in the Godswood. Now that the Night King was vanquished, he wanted to say a prayer for all those who had lost their lives in the fight for the dawn. It was most fitting that the prayer be said in the very spot where his final life had been taken by the Bringer of the Dawn.  
  
And there she was. Jon stopped. She wasn't alone. Moving closer, he saw Arya sitting on the large slab of rock where their father had so often reached out to the Old Gods or just enjoyed the silence as he polished Ice. She wasn't cleaning her weapon and she wasn't praying. She wasn't alone either. Kneeling before her was Gendry, the blacksmith that he had picked up on Dragonstone and taken with him on their Wight hunt beyond the Wall. He had continued with them all the way back to Winterfell.  
  
Arya was looking down at him with such an openness that Jon took a step closer. A wide smile graced her lips, the likes of which he hadn't seen since he left for the Wall years before and when she was just a young child. And it grew wider still, her eyes lighting up at something the young man said. She reached out, touching his face, running her hand over his short hair. Such familiarity, such ease. Even from this distance, there was a relaxed air about her that Jon wasn’t used to seeing these days. The tightly coiled fighter who could kill a man with cold-blooded finesse, the magnificent hero who had brought down the Night King when all their plans had failed, he didn't recognize that warrior who was still a stranger to him in this young woman sitting here. This Arya he knew from their youth.  
  
She rose, that smile still on her face, a smile Jon imagined was just for Gendry, and held out her hand to him. He stood up and reached for her, but she danced away, a merry giggle escaping her. The blacksmith caught her quickly, his arms wrapped around her and pushed her against the heart tree. Jon's hands turned to fists at his side and tightened. It was only shortly before the battle that had saved mankind that Jon had learned that Gendry had taken up with Jon out of loyalty to Arya. He had traveled with her in his youth… when Arya, only twelve, had run away from King's Landing to escape the Lannisters. A bond had formed between the two that not even time and distance had erased.  
  
Now they were both here in Winterfell, man and woman, in the Godswood. Kissing.  
  
Jon turned around and as he stumbled away, he heard her laugh again, so full of life and joy. He wanted to turn back, wanted to go to her, wanted to see what had made her laugh. He wanted to ask Gendry what he had done, what he had said to make his little sister smile and sound like the one he remembered from before. He looked over his shoulder. She wasn't laughing any longer. And she was most definitely not the little sister he remembered.  
  
He headed back towards the castle, trying to clear his head, but the image was burned into his mind. He kept trying to catch a hold of anything, any other image beyond his sister locked in such a passionate embrace with the blacksmith. But it was there and would not go away. He yanked open the door to his chamber and stalked in, slamming it shut behind him.  
  
"Jon, what is the matter?" He stopped short. Dany stood before the flames, her black and red gown flowing around her, her white gold curls falling down her back and over her shoulders like a waterfall of silk. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He loved her. He could not have her. He wanted her. But he could not have her. Not anymore. "Jon?"  
  
"Nothing. It's nothing. What are you doing here?" He ran a hand through his hair, loosening some of the strands from the knot he kept tied back.  
  
"I—" She broke off and moved closer to him, holding out a pale hand, slender, beseeching. "I wanted to talk to you about us."  
  
"Dany," Her name was an anguished plea. He knew that she loved him so how could she do this to him? How could she break his heart like this when she knew he could not be with her, not anymore? Why throw such temptation at his feet? Why do this to him? "I just saw my sister, Arya, and Gendry, the blacksmith, together."  
  
She blinked, confusion clouding her features. "What?" She shook her head. "Jon, what are you talking about?"  
  
"She was with him, laughing, smiling. She looked happy. She looked so in love, Dany. My little sister in love. And he's a good man, Gendry is. I'm happy for her." He finally looked Daenerys in the eye. "I want to be happy for her but it's hard because I think I'm jealous."  
  
"Of your sister and this blacksmith? You're jealous?" She sounded incredulous, and not pleased.  
  
"Not of them. Of course not. That would be mad. I'm jealous of what they have and that's terrible because I love my sister and I want her to be happy, but I want to be happy too. And I was," he looked at her and felt an overwhelming wave of sorrow rush through him because he had been so happy, and it was gone now. "I was happy with you. We were happy. So happy, so in love." He shook his head. "And I see my sister and she has that, and I've lost it all. So, I'm jealous." He laughed without a shred of happiness. "That makes me a terrible person."  
  
"You haven't lost your happiness or your love. I'm right here. You haven't lost me." She was quiet, but powerful in her sincerity, in her love for him.  
  
"Dany, I can't—" Jon turned away from her because it was too hard to look at her.  
  
"Don't say that! Don't look away from me!" She pleaded with him. He turned around again and there was such desperation and love on her face; it broke his heart. Dany took a few steps towards him and then stopped, control asserting itself. He could see how calmly, how carefully she did that. How she was trying so hard. "Think about it. Think about us. We're barely blood related. And we certainly haven't known each other as family. My nephew? That is nothing. Nothing at all. Had things not turned out as they did, I would have wed my brother, Viserys."  
  
"I know." He said quietly. He should have never tried to explain because she didn't understand. It wasn't in her to understand because it wasn't the Targaryen way.  
  
"Just…" She again stopped herself, the fight to rush madly, passionately at him and plead with him to just stop written all over her for but a moment before once again she composed herself. "Just think about how much we love each other. How we've found each other after all we've lost and of everything that we can do together for Westeros. Think of all that I can do with you by my side." She finally allowed herself to move closer to him, but she was tense, the ease with which they had danced around and with one another now gone. She reached out and laid a hand upon his cheek. "Jon, I love you."  
  
He nodded, curving his face into her touch. "Aye, and I love you, Dany." His voice was gruff. This all hurt too much. His eyes shut because he couldn't bear to look upon the beauty of her face, this woman he loved but could no longer have. He pulled away. "I have to go."  
  
"Jon!"  
  
"I have to check on the progress of the pyres."  
  
"Jon?" And he paused because there was a different note in her voice, steel where before there was silk. "We have yet to talk about who you are and what that means."  
  
"It means nothing," he tried to reassure her. He wanted to reassure her.  
  
Dany let out a harsh laugh. "It should mean nothing, but it will mean everything to some. We need to talk."  
  
Jon spared a glance back at her. And curse the Gods, because he thought again that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, backlit by fire, her eyes, bright and blazing, fierce determination burning in their gaze. "We will. Later. I have to check on the pyres." She gave the slightest nod of her head. He left her in his chambers and hoped that when he returned, she would be gone.  
  
He didn't check on the funeral pyres. Instead, he headed to the stables, wanting to just be by himself and ride. On the way he saw his sister, alone now. She was flushed, her hair messy, dark strands sticking to her neck where sweat glistened. He blushed. He knew what it meant. And suddenly it made him angry. They were burying hundreds upon hundreds of their dead on the morrow and she was fooling around with the blacksmith.  
  
"Arya!" His voice was sharp. She stopped short and then turned to him, very little expression upon her face. For some reason, that made him angrier. "In the Godswood? You were with Gendry in the Godswood?" Her breath hitched slightly, and he had a moment of satisfaction that he had rattled her before her countenance smoothed and she calmly folded her hands in front of her saying not a word. Jon moved forward. She remained motionless. "Where our father worshipped, you took him and did what?"  
  
"I didn't fuck him there if that's what you think." She stated with a raise of her brow.  
  
Her vulgarity surprised him. What didn't is that she could be so nonchalant, so unmindful of how upset he was, of all that was happening right now, as if she didn't care at all. She didn't care that he knew about her and Gendry. It sometimes seemed as if she barely cared about anything. That was who she was now. And that made him angrier. "Arya, what are you even doing with him?"  
  
"It's none of your business." She retorted, again with that maddening lack of emotion, and she turned to walk away as if she was done with the conversation, but he wasn't.  
  
Rushing ahead, Jon stood in front of her and grabbed a hold of her arm. She looked down at his hand and then up at him. He let go. "It is my business."  
  
"No, it's not. Just as it's none of my business if you want to fuck a woman so badly you don't care that she burns people alive just because she's having a bad day."  
  
Jon looked at her, surprised again, but this time that she would try to wound him, even if only using words as her weapon. It hurt and he couldn't quite believe that Arya would, could say something intentionally to hurt him. He looked down and stepped to the side, waiting for her to pass.  
  
She didn't. "Jon…" He wanted to believe that she sounded like _his_ Arya again, but there was so much going on inside of him right now that he could barely make sense of his own emotions to trust what he heard.  
  
Silence filled the air for a few heavy moments before he finally raised his eyes again. He had to believe in the sincerity in her voice. He had to because he wanted to. She was his little sister. "That was a terrible thing to say."  
  
"I know. I'm sorry." Jon breathed a sigh of relief. Her eyes were wide. No tears fell, but for the first time since he'd returned to Winterfell and spoken to her, she looked exactly like the Arya he remembered. All that she was feeling was there for him to see. It wasn't held back, contained, controlled by whatever mask she was wearing. Even when they had first seen each other in the Godswood, she had been restrained beyond that first rush, that first hug, but in this moment, he could feel all of her. She was holding nothing back emotionally. "I spoke with Sam Tarly earlier. I find it hard to believe you still defend her."  
  
Jon sighed. "Sam... there's more to it than that. She, she didn't burn—" He broke off. "It wasn't because she was having a bad day, Arya. She's not like that. She believes in doing what is best for Westeros. If you don't trust her, trust me."  
  
She was silent for a moment and then nodded. "I do." She smiled, a small smile, but a real one. "And I am sorry. That was not good of me to say to you. Father would not have approved. Of course, Father wouldn't approve of how you treated me," she pointed out with a raised brow.  
  
Jon let out a harsh sigh. "Yes, because Lord Eddard Stark would have no problem with his daughter doing whatever it is, no, don't tell me, you're doing with Gendry all over Winterfell." Arya grinned and Jon was glad to see it. "Yes, I'm not stupid. I just willfully blinded myself to it before what I saw today.” He shook his head. “Never mind, it doesn't matter, I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm sorry." Sighing, Jon was compelled to tell her the truth of what he had felt when he had seen her with the blacksmith earlier, what it was that had prompted his reaction. "I was jealous."  
  
Arya took a step closer and cocked her head slightly. "I don't understand."  
  
"I talked to her. Dany," he elaborated with a sad smile. "I told her that I was jealous having seen you two together, smiling, happy, in love—"  
  
"We're not. It's not like that, Jon. We're just fucking." Arya interrupted dryly.  
  
Jon winced. Despite her disheveled appearance he would have been happy to convince himself that his little sister was still a maid and it hadn't gone beyond a few passion-fueled kisses. "You know I could easily have him killed." He half-joked.  
  
Arya raised a brow. "That wouldn't be very pleasant for whomever you assigned the task to. They wouldn't live very long." She smirked. "You wouldn't want that weighing on your conscience, dear brother."  
  
Laughing lightly, Jon reached out and tugged at her hair, deciding to not look too closely at her threat which he rather believed was more of a promise. Instead, he focused on the intent behind it. "But it's not love?"  
  
Her expression slipped back into emotionless at his words and she changed the subject. "You said you were jealous of us and told your Dragon Queen as much?"  
  
"I wish you wouldn't call her that."  
  
"Isn't she, though?"  
  
"You don't mean it with respect." He held up a hand to stop whatever her response was going to be. "Yes, I told Dany I was jealous seeing the two of you. When I spoke with her, I thought it was because you and he had—" He broke off, realizing that he couldn't tell her of his discussion with Dany because Arya didn't know who he truly was. She didn't know that he had lost Dany because he was a Targaryen too. He looked down, away from her searching gaze and finished softly, giving her a truth that didn't tell the whole story but wasn't a lie. "You had something that I can no longer have with Daenerys, not with all that has happened recently. Because of talks I’ve had with Sam, in part, yes." He would let her make of that what she would.  
  
Arya nodded. "So, you were jealous of us."  
  
"But I was wrong." Her expression barely changed, and he knew then that he was right.  
  
"So, you weren't jealous of what we supposedly have that you don’t have anymore with her? So if it’s not that, what is it, Jon?" He sighed. When she had apologized, her voice, the look on her face, she had been closer to the girl he remembered, but now she was back to this calm, unruffled person so different from the girl he knew. What he had seen of her with Gendry, the animation that imbued her everything, was missing.  
  
"You feel with him, or at least it seems that way, from what I've seen. And today, I heard you laughing so loudly. I didn't even think you knew how anymore. But Gendry makes you laugh, Arya." He smiled at her, and she looked away, a slight flush betraying her. She did love Gendry, Jon believed that, even if she couldn't admit it. He wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to his sister in the years they had been apart that had so changed her.  
  
"Arya," She met his gaze again, her composure regained. "Sometimes I barely recognize you. You've changed so much, but Gendry, I can tell that he still sees the Arya he traveled with years ago." Jon could still see in his mind's eye her joy when he gave her Needle, and her pain when she hugged him for the last time before they parted, but that Arya was lost to him. "When I saw you two in the Godswood, it wasn't that the two of you were together like that, it was that you were… Arya, you were you."  
  
She pursed her lips and looked away for a moment, her frame tightening. She blinked a few times and then she looked back up at him. "I don't know what you're talking about, Jon. I am me. This is me now. I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell. I'm just not the Arya Stark when Eddard and Catelyn Stark ruled here. We all change. You've changed. Sansa changed. Bran certainly has changed. So have I." She took a step towards him and met his gaze, her own softening just enough that his heart lifted. "But I'm still your little sister. Please don't ever forget that."  
  
Her gaze was soft, but her countenance was still guarded. There was a mask over her emotions, unwilling to let anyone, even him, get too close.  
  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**  
  
A slight brush against his side brought him out of his thoughts. He looked down at Ghost, sitting on his haunches staring straight ahead intently. Jon looked in the same direction but couldn't see anything. He shrugged and his thoughts returned to Arya. He had only seen her once more after that day outside the stables before the Battle of the Bells in King's Landing when she had warned him about Daenerys, and it was in the Godswood again. That day she had affirmed she was his sister, she was family. She had done this before and after he had told her and Sansa that he was Aegon Targaryen.  
  
When he saw her in King's Landing, she was even more… Arya, still different, still cooler than the child he had known, but he could see the daughter that Ned Stark, and yes, Catelyn, had raised in the young woman standing before him. He didn't know then what had happened to bring back a little more of that girl he knew but he was happy for it. Imagine his surprise when she told him before she sailed West about the role that Sandor Clegane had played in the change in her attitude.  
  
Ghost made a noise, bringing him out of his musing, and he looked down at the direwolf. His left ear perked up, and his hackles were raised just the slightest. It wasn't danger then, just something or someone new coming. Looking up, Jon saw that a rider was heading to their encampment. He watched as a package was handed down and then passed through a few hands before making its way to their form of a maester, Jelark, who had the position by virtue of being able to read and write. He sifted through the delivery, reading the names of the senders to Tormund who kept some items and handed off others to one of the men near him and then headed over to Jon.  
  
"A few more letters were sent to our drop spot from King's Landing and Winterfell. For you." He frowned. "The glorious lady warrior has yet to write me."  
  
Jon smiled. "Tormund, I hate to tell you, my friend, but I don't think she ever will."  
  
"I've sent her poems of my many great deeds. Tales of my sexual exploits. Jelark was most impressed when I had him write them down. What more can I do?" Tormund looked genuinely confused and Jon shook his head. He held out a hand and Tormund gave him his letters.  
  
Sifting through them, Jon kept most. Two were marked with the seal of Winterfell, those he handed back to Tormund. "Put these with the others."  
  
The red-haired man sighed. "That makes about five of these now. You haven't read even one."  
  
"I know." Jon's voice brooked no argument.  
  
Tormund ignored his tone. "She's your sister."  
  
Jon looked at him. "She's not m—" He broke off, despite his feelings of betrayal, he found himself unable to denounce Sansa as his sister despite the actual truth of it. In blood she might not be, but in his heart she was. He loved her. He knew that what she had done she believed was for the best and she had certainly done the best for the North. But... He shook his head. "Just put them with the others. I'll read them when I'm ready."

**—THE NEXT CHAPTER: THE FATHER WHO WOULD BE—**


	9. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 08: Davos I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos goes West of Westeros. He, Arya and Gendry discuss their pasts.
> 
>  **Characters** : Davos Seaworth, Gendry Baratheon, Arya Stark, Bran Stark, Tyrion Lannister, Gilly Tarly  
>  **Relationships** : Davos & Gendry, Arya/Gendry, Davos & Arya (minor) Tyrion & Bran
> 
> * * *

**** THE FATHER WHO WOULD BE  
** **

**—ONE MOON BEFORE—**  
  
Gendry Baratheon was to set sail with the rise of the next sun. He and his wife. Davos shook his head, surprised, and yet not that the young lord had given up a castle, titles over the Southern region of Westeros and immense power all for the love of the Stark girl. After all, what a girl she was. A fierce warrior in battle, she had saved them all, and loyal to those she loved. And she loved Gendry, a boy who was like a son to him. In the weeks since the Long Night, Davos had spent many an hour and more days by his side and he knew that Jon couldn't have a finer good brother. He would treat his little sister well.  
  
"Davos!" The fine man he was thinking of interrupted his thoughts with a cheery shout. The Master of Ships turned away from his view of the Western sea. He smiled and took in the refined, but simple garb that Gendry wore as he strode toward him, purpose in his step. Just as he'd confidently faced him a year ago on the Street of Steel, hammer in hand, ready to go, there was no hesitation.  
  
"Are you all set then, lad?" Davos asked as he leaned back against the turret. Gendry nodded. "No second thoughts?" Although Davos knew the answer, he still asked the question. Gendry shook his head, a smile curving his lips. The older man sighed. "It's a long journey."  
  
"I know, don't care—"  
  
"You say that now, but life on a ship—"  
  
"I don't care." Gendry laughed. "Davos, I don't care where I am. I can be on a ship or on the road. In a hovel or in a castle. At Winterfell, on the Street of Steel, in the Red Keep or Storm's End. I don't care. As long as I'm with Arya." He smiled. "That's what matters." He laid a hand on Davos' shoulder, "and I'll be with Arya on that ship, so I don't care how long the journey. We'll be together."  
  
"And that's all that matters?"  
  
"Yes." His smile dimmed until there was just a look of boyish contentment on his face and Davos felt a tightening in his chest. He recognized that feeling. It was love; the love that a man felt for his child, his son. He loved this boy like he was his own. He wanted him to be happy. "Davos, I have what I always wanted. Family."  
  
Davos nodded and cleared his throat. "Family." Thinking of all the family that he himself had lost, and then of the family that Gendry had been denied because Robert Baratheon had been unaware of his existence, because Stannis didn't treat him as his blood, because—his thoughts cut off when he suddenly realized something. "You still have family here in Westeros, Gendry."  
  
Gendry shook his head. "Any family I ever had threw me away. My mum, Master Mott, the Brotherhood, Stannis," he spit his uncle's name out, a spark of anger lighting his voice before the fire dimmed as he exhaled with a huff. Gendry paused, and a hint of vulnerability crept in as he continued. "Even you." He forced a laugh, but there wasn't much humor in it. "You decided to stay in King's Landing instead of coming to Storm's End to help me sort it all before I gave it up."  
  
"Son—"  
  
"No, I understand. What I'm saying is I don't have family here in Westeros. I have Arya. Arya is my family."  
  
Davos paused, wanting to touch on what Gendry had said about not going with him to Storm's End, but there was something in his eyes, a shuttered look that had crossed his face as soon as the words had come out. It was not a topic the boy wanted to discuss. He stood straight and instead broached the subject he'd intended to when he first mentioned family. "I was talking of your brother, the new lord of Storm's End. Don't you want to meet him, get to know him? You leave tomorrow and you've asked the King, your _good brother_ ," Davos couldn't help but emphasize that relationship, another family member that Gendry was ignoring, "no questions about him. Don't you care about that?"  
  
Gendry was quiet for a moment. He walked over and stood next to Davos, his hands resting on the turrets. He looked out at the horizon and Davos waited for a response. Silence filled the dusk and the older man finally just turned to the same view as Gendry.  
  
When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "No. I don't care. All I care about is Arya. What's another one of Robert Baratheon's bastards to me? The last family of my blood, the last Baratheon, my uncle Stannis, tried to burn me alive." His voice was filled with such bitterness and when he turned to face Davos, a tinge of that Baratheon fury burned in his eyes. "My family is Arya Stark, not any Baratheon. I don't care about them. And I don't care about the Starks or the Lannisters or any other House. It's what I said, any 'family' I've ever known or ever tried to make for myself threw me away."  
  
He wrinkled his brow. "I suppose even Arya did, but it was... I had done it to her, years before. And it was different this time. She didn't throw me away. She was just confused, you see, and so was I. She had to finish her—something, and I needed to figure out what she needed from me. But I did, and I got her back. So, not really, not Arya." Gendry's voice grew soft, love filling every word. "She's my family. Just Arya. and we're going to sail away from this Gods forsaken country and we'll have each other."  
  
"I'll miss you, lad."  
  
Gendry ducked his head for a moment. He looked out at the Western sea and Davos noticed a shimmer at the corner of his eye. His jaw clenched, his chin trembled and suddenly, unexpectedly, he threw himself in Davos' arms. "Me too," he muttered, the words muffled, but Davos heard them all the same.  
  
  
**HIS TRUNK WAS** packed. Davos realized that he probably should have talked to his king, or at the very least, the King's Hand before getting ready to leave his post on the Small Council and likely sailing off to his death, but once he made things official, he wanted to go.  
  
There was a knock on the door. He gave a quick look about his chamber. All was neat, everything he needed put away. Answering the summons, he wasn't surprised to see Tyrion Lannister standing before him. He stood back, allowing the smaller man to enter. About to shut the door, he was startled when coming into view was King Bran, wheeled by his manservant, Jessup. "Ser Davos," Bran said without inflection.  
  
"Your Grace," Davos said quickly, lowering his head. And then looked to Tyrion. "Lord Hand."  
  
Tyrion looked around Davos' chamber and then hopped on top of his trunk. "You're all packed for your voyage West." It wasn't a question.  
  
Davos sighed. "How d'ye—" He cut himself off and looked to his king. "Your Grace? You saw it?"  
  
Bran nodded. "You're going to join my sister and Gendry."  
  
"Aye, I worry for the boy." Davos sighed wearily and sat in the nearest chair. That was one of the things that he liked about these Stark kings. They didn't stand much on ceremony. Of course with this king, he was always sitting so there was that.  
  
"Bran, you didn't say anything was going to happen to Lord Baratheon," Tyrion commented. "That's a shame, I rather liked him."  
  
Davos looked to the Hand, confused by his statement and surprised with the casual way he addressed the king. Although, thinking on it, he often had addressed his brother by his first name when he was Jon Snow's Hand. "Ser Davos?" Davos looked to his current Stark king.  
  
"Yes, Your Grace?"  
  
"I didn't see anything bad happening to my good brother," he shot a quick look Tyrion's way, and Davos could have sworn it was annoyance, but of the friendly sort. _Did their king have emotions after all?_ , Davos wondered and then focused on the words that Bran had spoken, relieved at what he said.  
  
"You knew that Davos was joining them?" Tyrion asked.  
  
"Yes, but I didn't know why."  
  
"Ah, that's why we're here." Tyrion turned to Davos. "Why are you worried about the young Lord Gendry?"  
  
Davos ran a hand over his beard and shook his head slightly. "He's been through a lot. Doesn't understand family. He's been hurt, abandoned his whole life. His mother died when he was young, left like everyone else after her. Another soul who didn't care enough to stick around. Thinks family is one thing only. His wife." He looked to Bran. "I believe that Gendry and your sister bear a great love for one another, and I'm happy for them for that, but the boy is making his entire world about her. A man can't do that. No one should. If something were to happen to her, I'm not sure he could go on."  
  
Bran and Tyrion looked at Davos silently.  
  
"I want to show him that Arya Stark isn't the only person that loves him. I want to show him that she's not his only family." There was no response. "He needs to know that. Not just me. He needs to know about his cousin Shireen, and the Starks, they are his family too now."  
  
The king and his Hand looked towards one another. Tyrion sighed.  
  
Davos stood up. "I lost my wife and my own sons while I was off serving his uncle, a king, and your brother, another king. I'll be damned if I lose this boy who's like a son to me serving yet another king," he paused and looked between them. "So?" Bran gave a slight nod. Davos closed his eyes momentarily in relief. "Thank you. I walk away from my post as Master of Ships."  
  
Bran nodded, and then he smiled. "While you're with Princess Arya _Baratheon_ and Lord Baratheon perhaps once you’ve reached your destination you can detail an accounting of what types of ships they have West of Westeros for us." Davos nodded, finding it curious and reassuring that the king was so sure they would reach a destination. He also noticed that Bran had made sure to call his sister by her full name, Arya Baratheon, and had even put just the slightest bit of emphasis on the House name she had married into. Davos realized that he had referred to Gendry's wife as Arya Stark. She may be a Stark still, but his king clearly did not want him to forget that she was indeed Gendry's family first and foremost now. It was an important reminder of which Davos needed to not lose sight.  
  
Davos gave a quick bow of his head. "That I will do, Your Grace. And, again, I thank you."  
  
"Bran. When we aren't conducting official business in public, you may call me Bran. After all, we are… family."  
  
Tyrion grinned, and hopped up. "Safe travels, Ser Davos. Give the young Lord Baratheon and the mighty Bringer of the Dawn my greetings, won't you?" Jessup wheeled Bran out, Tyrion following. As they left his chamber, Davos heard the name "Lord Wyman Manderly" suggested as his replacement. Shutting the door, he leaned against it, unable to wipe the smile off of his face. That did not go how he expected when he had first heard the knock, but he was pleased.  
  
There was another knock. He stood straight and turned to face the dark wood. Perhaps he had been too optimistic. "Is there something else?" He muttered to himself and pulled the knob, eyes low as he expected to see the Hand again. Instead, Gilly Tarly stood before him, those wide eyes staring into his.  
  
"Sam was just talking to Lord Tyrion." Davos raised a brow, waiting for the punchline. "He said that you're leaving. You're taking a ship and you're going to catch up with Jon's sister and sail West of Westeros with her and her husband."  
  
"Aye," Davos nodded and opened his door a bit wider and gestured to his trunk. "I'm ready to go now, leaving within the hour."  
  
The young woman closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. After a few moments, she opened them and reached out to take his hands in a desperate grip. "Take me with you. Please."  
  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**  
  
Gendry was looking over the sword he had made for Arya, the one she called Flower. There was a story there he was sure. Davos smiled. The story didn't matter, neither did the name. All that mattered was that the girl knew how to wield that weapon and that she did… better than just about anyone he had ever seen. Not that he'd seen her do anything beyond her daily practice aboard the _Nymeria_. They'd found a few small islands, uninhabited but plentiful in resources, not just food, but other properties that could be beneficial to Westeros. He had made sure to take notes and mark the coordinates for King Bran.  
  
Rising to his feet, Davos joined Gendry who had finally finished his inspection of Flower and returned it to his wife who carefully sheathed the sword. The lad greeted his arrival with a smile. Arya's expression didn't change, but there was a slight narrowing of her eyes. She didn't trust him yet. He supposed that was fair enough. From what he had learned from Gendry in the days they had spent together in King's Landing, he'd learned that Arya Stark Baratheon had faith in very few people. Aside from Gendry, Stark was the last name of the others. Davos grinned. With the exception of the Queen of the North, everyone that Arya trusted held him in the same regard. He settled down next to her. He figured that chances were high to get on her good side.  
  
"So Gendry, Arya," Davos knew that she didn't like to be called by her title. "How exactly did the two of you meet? I know it was before Gendry first came to Winterfell." He looked between the two of them. Gendry looked to Arya, clearly waiting for the go-ahead to speak and Davos wondered where that deference came from. Was it because she was a noblewoman, Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, a princess two times over now? Or did it go deeper? Was it because of that desperate need for family, for belonging that Gendry was still looking for to fix that broken part of himself that he thought only Arya could do?  
  
Davos looked to Arya. She gave a quick roll of her eyes. "I'm not 'milady,' for fuck's sake. Tell him, don't tell him. It's up to you." He chuckled and turned back to Gendry who had a sheepish look on his face.  
  
Scratching the back of his neck, something that he had a habit of doing when embarrassed, Davos had noticed, Gendry glanced at Arya and then released a sigh. "Well, I was with a group of recruits for the Night's Watch. My master, Tobho Mott, had sold me to them. Still don't know what I'd done to this day. Thought I was doing good work, but guess he got tired of me—"  
  
"Great with a hammer, but a bit stupid."  
  
"Excuse me!"  
  
"I don't know why my master sold me, guess he got tired of me," she mimicked his voice, and then burst out, her face bright with animation. "For fuck's sake, Gendry! Tobho Mott didn't sell you. The Gold Cloaks were after you because you're Robert Baratheon's bastard. Someone wanted you out of King's Landing! You're such an idiot sometimes." She shook her head, and then suddenly grinned and looked fondly at him. "You remind me of Jon."  
  
Davos watched the interaction between the two, marveling at how different she was with Gendry than with anyone else. At war councils, in the few meetings she had attended, training, even with her siblings she held herself in check. If she did express herself it was with a single-minded threat that was more of a promise. But with Gendry, there were highs and lows, joy and exasperation, she engaged _with_ him. She reacted _to_ him. She was completely open with him… and she was doing so in front of Davos which meant, maybe he was wrong, maybe she trusted him after all. He couldn't help but smile at that thought.  
  
"Gendry," the boy turned to look at him. "So, you were on your way to the Night's Watch, how did you meet Arya?" Davos asked, wanting to get back to the question on his mind.  
  
"Oh, we were still in King's Landing. I guess, it wasn't Master Mott who sold me." He shrugged. "What Arya said makes sense. There must have been more to it, me being Robert Baratheon's bastard, but I dunno how. We were leaving when another boy, a small thing," his face broke into a wide grin, "named Arry joined us. A couple of the other boys tried to pick on him, I stopped them, so he stuck with me. It didn't take me long to realize that Arry was not a boy, but a girl."  
  
Davos leaned back and looked over at Arya. He'd wondered where the story was going and had a brief thought for a flash when Gendry said the name "Arry" that the boy could be Arya but he couldn't believe that a noble girl would, could do that, but apparently she could and did.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Yoren told me to keep a watch out for Arry. He didn't know I knew she was a girl, but I guess he knew I wasn't one of the bad ones, so he said to stay close. Then the Gold Cloaks showed up. Arya thought they were looking for her. They weren't. They were looking for me. Yoren wouldn't let them take me, sent them off. Later, we tried to figure out why they wanted me, I didn't know. Didn't know who my father was. So I asked her. Asked if it was because she was a girl, she tried to deny it, but she told me the truth." Davos looked over at Arya who was looking at Gendry, a gentle smile on her face, her entire being radiated a glow of happiness. _The girl loves him so much. I don't think she even realizes it._  
  
Gendry laughed. "I couldn't believe it. A lady and the things I had been saying and doing in front of her, but she didn't act like a lady and denied being one. Said I couldn't tell anyone. She said that Yoren was taking her to Winterfell."  
  
"OH!" Arya straightened up, her eyes wide. "I forgot!"  
  
Both Davos and Gendry turned to her. "What is it?" Gendry asked.  
  
"It was father who wanted you out of King's Landing. I didn't tell you, there was the wedding that day so I just forgot. Bran said… you were going to Winterfell." She reached out and took his hand. "You weren't going to the Wall, Gendry. You were always supposed to go to Winterfell."  
  
His eyes widened and he smiled. "I guess we both took the long road." She laughed. "How… why?"  
  
"My father. After he met you, knew you were Robert's son. He wanted to protect you. Bran told me he asked Varys to get you out of the capital, get you to Winterfell. Yoren was taking both of us."  
  
"He never said anything to me. Yoren never told me."  
  
Arya shook her head. "He probably didn't know that you would keep that to yourself."  
  
Reluctant to insert himself in the conversation, Davos couldn't help it because he was curious to know about this fellow. "And who exactly is this Yoren?"  
  
"Yoren was the Night's Watch recruiter." Gendry explained. "He was a good man. Protected us. Defended us to his death."  
  
The air suddenly felt heavy. Arya took a deep breath and then was silent. Davos wanted to speak to puncture the sudden, inexplicable tension that had risen but something told him not to, to wait. That something was right.  
  
Arya spoke. "Yoren gave me a reason to keep on going. Every day. I had purpose." Gendry gave a heavy sigh. "He gave me my list."  
  
"What list?"  
  
"Joffrey, Cersei, Ilyn Payne, The Hound, Meryn Trant, The Mountain, Tywin Lannister." Gendry recited a list of names, most Davos recognized, a few Lannisters, some of them awful people, all dead.  
  
"Who are they?" He said at the same time as Arya whispered her query.  
  
"You remembered?"  
  
Gendry offered up a sad smile. "I had to listen to it each night when we were at Harrenhall in the cage and then over and over for months on end on the road. Yes, Arry, I remember it."  
  
_In the cage at Harrenhall?_ Davos thought. _Gods! What did these children go through?_ He wanted to ask about the cage, about Harrenhall, but that voice in his head, the one he had learned to listen to when he was younger than Gendry, the one that had kept his head on his shoulders all these years, told him now was not the time. Instead he repeated the same question. "Who are they, those names?"  
  
Arya met his gaze, her face expressionless. "The people I was going to kill. Yoren told me about the man who murdered his brother and how he repeated that man's name every night before he went to bed until he killed him. It was his prayer, it was his motivation to live, to carry on. So it became mine. 'Joffrey, Cersei, Ilyn Payne, The Hound, Meryn Trant, The Mountain, Tywin Lannister.' I added more names to the list, took off a few. Some I killed. Others were taken before I could." She shrugged. "They're all gone now."  
  
"So much death, child," Davos murmured.  
  
"I'm not a child," Arya snapped.  
  
He was not offended; his heart was broken for her and he said the words he believed strongly that she needed to hear. "No, but you were. I knew a girl who was about your age when this all happened to you. To imagine her locked in a cage, dealing with even a little of what you've been through," he shook his head. "It breaks my heart. You didn't deserve that. That you survived it all to become who you are is remarkable. You are remarkable." Davos looked up to the blue skies and let out a shaky breath. "Would that she had survived." He turned to Gendry. "She was your cousin. Stannis' daughter, Shireen, and I loved that girl like she was my own."  
  
"What happened to her?" Arya asked. Davos' heart cracked just a bit that it wasn't Gendry who wanted to know about his own family.  
  
Deciding to force the boy into being a part of the conversation, Davos brought his own history into the tale. "Gendry should be familiar with how this all went down." Sure enough, Gendry perked up, his eyes widening. "When Melisandre," he spat her name, "brought Gendry to Dragonstone it was because she needed king's blood. Since he was Robert Baratheon's son, his would do. I only knew that part of it. I didn't know she planned to drug the boy, have her way with him—"  
  
"I knew there was something funny about that wine!" Gendry burst out. "I'd never had fancy wine before, never been with a woman, seen one so fine as her undressed, but it went to my head so fast and everything felt—she drugged me!" His face was red with anger, his eyes burning blue, but he said nothing further about it. He looked at Davos. "Go on."  
  
"I certainly didn't know Kin—Stannis planned on throwing him in a cell and burning him alive as a sacrifice to her bloody Red God so Stannis could save mankind." Davos reached out and clasped Gendry's arm. "I should have left Dragonstone with you that day. If I had, maybe things would be different. But I still believed in your uncle. I was a fool." He let go and sighed, standing up, his back to them as he continued his story. "I was ordered to stay at Castle Black. I told Stannis that Shireen and Lady Baratheon should stay behind with me for their safety. When that was shot down, I argued that I should be with him for their protection, but he insisted I stay behind still. I should have known then, but, like I said, I was a fool. Melisandre knew that if I had been with Stannis, I wouldn't have let him go through with it. I would have gotten her away, would've killed Stannis myself."  
  
"No," Gendry whispered hoarsely. "Don't tell me…"  
  
"Aye." Davos turned around to face the lad. "One of the soldiers who deserted after—after…" He broke off and took a deep breath before continuing. "He was outside Stannis' tent and heard their whole conversation. He didn't believe it, couldn't believe it until it happened. He came back and fought for Jon and found me after that battle. Told me that if he'd believed Stannis would have really done it, he would have gotten her away, but who could believe such a thing of a man, a father?"  
  
"What did he hear?" Arya asked. Davos looked down, noticing that she held Gendry's hand now, her thumb caressing his tense knuckles tenderly.  
  
"He heard the Red Woman telling Stannis that in order to defeat Ramsey Bolton they needed another great sacrifice. They needed king's blood. Stannis had told her they had none because no one knew where his bastard nephew was thanks to me. Melisandre told him they had another child of a king they could sacrifice. The soldier, Laddis, he said that Stannis argued, fought it at first, but—" Davos broke off again, his voice choked up now, tears rimming his eyes as he thought of that sweet, sweet girl. "He gave in. Stannis always gave in to Melisandre. He burnt that beautiful little girl at the stake. Laddis told me that she screamed his name, screamed for both Stannis and her mother to stop, screamed all the way until she couldn't scream anymore.  
  
"She had the sweetest, most pure soul of any one I ever met."  
  
"She did." Davos turned around and Gilly was standing there. Her wide sad eyes filled with tears. "She taught me how to read. She never made me feel stupid. Even Sam sometimes did. But never Shireen. She was like a little sister to me." Fire suddenly flashed in the young woman's eyes. "I'm glad that Stannis Baratheon is dead. And Lady Baratheon. And that Red Witch too. They all deserved to die. Every one of them." She turned and fled.  
  
"I'm sorry, Davos." Arya said quietly. "I am glad they're all dead too. However, if it weren't for the Red Woman, none of us would be here now, so I'm grateful she took her sweet time dying."  
  
"Aye, she saved Jon's life. He would still be dead were it not for her. She brought him back." Arya looked surprised. "You didn't know?"  
  
"That she brought him back? That he died? No, to the first, yes, to the second." Arya slumped back down next to Gendry who hadn't moved or spoken since he'd first realized that Stannis had burned his own daughter alive. "Jon and I didn't connect as much as I would have liked. Nor as much as he would have." She said this last to herself, still Davos responded.  
  
"What happened when Jon died, it was a difficult experience, Arya. He wasn't exactly happy that he was brought back, but it was better for all of mankind that he was. And it is because of the Red Woman that it happened. As much as I hated her, she is proof there is good and bad in almost everyone. Even her."  
  
Gendry suddenly stood up. "You say you hate her, but you see good in her? She's evil. I hate what she did to me. Even if she did save Jon, even if she did remind Arya of what she could do, it was all to serve her own purpose and it doesn't make her any less evil. What she did to me?! What she did to that girl, Shireen?! She was evil." He glared at Davos and left the two of them, heading below deck.  
  
Davos sighed. "That boy has a lot he has yet to deal with." He sat down next to Arya. "You do realize that. You're not the only one who has been dealt a hard hand." She sent him a lethal look. "Don't look at me like I'm the enemy. I care for the boy, like he was my own. I want what's best for him. And I don't want anything to happen to him. That's why I'm here." The look softened, but her eyes were still narrowed. She was assessing him. He could understand that and decided it was time to open up to her.  
  
"I'm happy that Gendry has you. He has demons, demons that I don't think he even realizes run as deep as they do. He has no sense of the importance of family. He thinks it's just one person who can love him—you. And I know that you do, but you understand that family is more than the love of a spouse. Your parents had each other from what I understand, but your father had his siblings, and even Robert Baratheon who was like a brother. And they had their children and the lot of you had each other. And even if you all weren't close, you had the bonds of family that connected you. That is what Gendry doesn't understand."  
  
Arya frowned, but because she was thinking. It wasn't because she was judging him any longer, he could tell. She was considering his words. "But he has you. You're his family too. Not just me."  
  
"Aye, and he knows I care for him, but he feels that I abandoned him, by taking the Master of Ships position and not choosing to go to Storm's End with him before he gave it all up. When I did that, Arya, he put all of his faith in you and you alone. It's complicated, and like I said, I don't think he even realizes how deep it goes for him. He's a broken boy who is finally safe and loved and has his home with you wherever you two are. But I needed to be here for him too. To show him that he does have family outside of you. He has me too." She smiled. "And selfishly I want to be here to keep an eye on him."  
  
Arya sat up straighter. "You think I can't take care of my husband?"  
  
"Hoho! I know you can, Bringer of the Dawn! The Princess that was Promised!"  
  
"Don't call me that!" She snapped.  
  
Grinning, Davos leaned back and folded his arms in front of him. "I said selfishly that I want to be here. Arya, I'm an old man. I've lost all of my sons. My faithful wife sat at home waiting for me while I served kings and died waiting for me while I served kings. I have no family left. All I have left in this world is Gendry. I'll not have anything happen to that boy if I can help it." He looked Arya straight in the eye. "He's like a son to me. I love him."  
  
Arya was silent for a few moments. She stood up and walked to the railing. Davos joined her and gazed out over the blue waves. He waited for her to speak. She remained quiet; he looked to her and the soft, warm wind was blowing her hair about her face. It was growing longer now; she normally wore it in a braid that would curl around her neck when she trained, but not today. Today it fell loose around her shoulders in sun-kissed brown waves.  
  
Tucking wayward strands behind her ear, she finally turned to look at him. "You love him, then show him. Whenever Robb or Jon would go off like Gendry just did, father would give them a few minutes to sulk and then tell them whatever it was they needed to hear to feel better. He's like your son, go be his father."  
  
  
**GENDRY WAS EATING** a tangy, yellow fruit they had found on one of the islands in the galley. It was the first place that Davos had looked since there was no forge aboard the ship. "Whenever I need to find you, I always know where to go." Davos teased.  
  
"I don't want to talk." His tone was sullen. Davos was reminded of his sons when they were younger, not men yet and with sorrow realized that Gendry had never had the opportunity to just be a boy.  
  
Grabbing an apple, Davos threw it in the air, then caught it. "That's fine, you can just listen." He took a bite of the apple and chewed, giving Gendry an opportunity to reject him.  
  
He took it. "I don't want to listen."  
  
Davos cocked his head and took another bite waiting for him to walk away. He didn't. "OK, I'll just think out loud then. Not talking to anyone in particular." He paused, giving Gendry yet another chance to ignore the old man. Gendry stayed put. Davos hid his grin with another bite, swallowed and then began speaking to himself aloud. "I'm glad that you and Arya are on this journey together. This way you won't lose each other, like I did with my family. My sons changed so much when I was out smuggling, and then one by one, I lost them. My wife, I saw her only once every few years and we barely knew each other because I had changed, and she had too. I found one king and then another. She found religion. And she grew to love her Gods more than she had ever loved me." He sighed and Gendry finally looked at him. "Then she found death. And that I didn't find out until many moons later because I was gone like I was through so much of our marriage."  
  
He set the apple down, half-uneaten. "I was a terrible husband, barely saw my wife. Not much better as a father to my own children because I wasn't there. When I was with them, I would like to think I was good. I listened, I tried, but I just wasn't there enough." He scoffed. "Not enough. And they're all gone now. Shireen is gone now." Davos walked over to Gendry and he took his face in his hands, looking him straight in the eyes because he was talking to him, no more pretense at that, "but I still have you, lad."  
  
"What has happened to you is awful. You've been used and abused. You've been thrown away and discarded and treated like you're worth nothing, but that's not true. You are worth everything. To Arya. And to me." He shook Gendry's head slightly, affectionately.  
  
Gendry wiped at his eyes as Davos let go and stepped back. "I love you, Gendry. Don't you ever forget it."

**—THE NEXT CHAPTER: THE BOY WHO WAS REPLACED—**


	10. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 09: Aegon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon Targaryen and his guardians learn all that has happened in Westeros while he has been in hiding in Essos.
> 
>  **Characters** : Aegon Targaryen (a.k.a. Young Griff), Jon Connington (a.k.a. Griff), Rolly Duckfield (Duck), Haldon, Ysilla  
>  **Relationships** : Aegon & JonCon, Aegon & Duck
> 
> * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the delay in posting. I accidentally deleted ALL of my gmail emails including the emails from my betas. I was able to get them today so here we are.

** THE BOY WHO WAS REPLACED **

**THE SAND WAS** golden, glistening under the sun where the waves rushed in and out. As Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, took his first steps on Westerosi soil, he savored the soft crunch of the wet grains beneath his boots. Dragonstone. The island of his family's ancestral castle. He was home. Falling to his knees, he bent down, palms flat against the sand, water swirling against the cuffs of his jacket, his head bowed. Home.  
  
A smile spread across Aegon's face and he rose to his full height with a joyous bark of laughter. Spreading his arms wide, he turned to his companions. They had climbed out of the _Shy Maid_ 's dinghy, but stood by it still, waiting, watching him. Haldon, his expression severe, emphasizing the lines that age had carved into his face, and his eyes cool and as grey as the water lapping against the dark cloak he wore, had no jape for this occasion. Standing beside him was the brawny Rolly Duckfield, shaggy beard misted with the sea's spray and that distinctive shock of orange hair. Although both men were of great import to him, Aegon spared them only a glance. He was focused on the one who stared intently at him. The blue dye still remained in his hair, but it was fading, the natural red and strands of grey at the roots and throughout beginning to show. The blue in his eyes, determined, steady, sure, remained unchanging. Jon Connington, once like a brother to his father, now like a father to his son, had helped bring that son home.  
  
Aegon nodded at Jon, and then Duck, and then Haldon, before meeting Jon's eyes once more. "Come." He smiled, one filled with promise. "It is time we take back the Iron Throne."  
  
**—ONE YEAR BEFORE—**  
  
The smallest fish of the bunch was still of a fair size. Their group would eat well tonight, Aegon thought. And Duck would have no cause to tease him for his poor skill with the pole. This fine catch today was proof that it had been his trainer's pitiable bait all along rather than how Aegon coaxed the fish to take a bite. Whistling softly, he closed his eyes for a moment, reveling in the warm sun on his face and bare chest.  
  
The dirt road he walked was empty, most of the villagers still out fishing or in the heart of Esarth, preparing food, doing chores, or taking care of the children and elders. It was peaceful, living the simple life in this remote village in Lorath, far away from where he was born in Westeros. In Westeros, that far away land where he was born to rule. But for the last twenty-odd years, Esarth was just one of the many places he had spent learning how to rule well.  
  
He glanced down at the bounty of fish in his hand and grinned. That included learning how to spend a few hours with a pole to provide dinner for his group of companions. Jon would be proud. He wouldn't say it at the first, but so would Duck. Speaking of… the burly man headed toward him, his expression not the jovial sort that Aegon was used to seeing on the former blacksmith's face.  
  
"Young Griff," Duck paused for a moment, an odd look crossing his face before he gave a shake of his head, and for the first time in a very long time, Aegon reflected how strange it was to be called a name other than his own. "Give Ysilla the fish to clean and go inside. Haldon and Griff are waiting for you." He was solemn. The pleasure that Aegon was feeling over his capture of the day dissipated. If Duck was grim, this was serious. He sighed and walked over to the older woman who was hanging clothes to dry. She turned at the sound of his coming and held out her hand. She had been expecting this. Handing off the dinner he had caught, Aegon headed to the small home their motley group shared and stepped inside. Jon stood with his back to the door. This was unlike him. The older man was ever the warrior, always on guard, but not now. Something had changed.  
  
A deep sigh grabbed his attention and Aegon looked to Haldon sitting at the table. The sound was another unusual sign, there was gravity from his chainless maester, the man who had taught him his letters and numbers, as well as the laws and religions of Westeros and Essos with a quick wit. What had changed?  
  
"It's been six moons since we've heard from Lord Varys." Haldon's voice was heavy.  
  
Aegon looked from him to Jon who had still not turned from the window. "Esarth is a small village. We get no word of anything happening in Essos let alone Westeros. A few moons have passed before between letters from Lord Varys, what is different now?" Both men remained silent. "Haldon?" He raised his voice, determination deepening his tone. "Jon? Something is different."  
  
Finally, Jon Connington, the man who had been a father to him when his own had been killed in battle by the Usurper, Robert Baratheon, slowly spun around to face him. "Never more than three moons. Yes, we are far from all that is going on out there, and for a reason. To keep you safe," he paused, "Aegon."  
  
A shiver ran through the young man. Although, he thought of himself by his birth-given name, Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar, grandson of Aerys II, he was never called such. It was always Young Griff, the son of Griff, the man standing before him. The two of them with their matching hair dyed blue, both with eyes of blue, the older Griff's pale, the younger's dark, so dark, they were almost purple. A tell-tale color that would have been more noticeable with his locks of pale-gold. "Aegon," he breathed. Saying his own name aloud released something within him, a power of ownership he wasn't even aware that he had possessed.  
  
"Yes." Jon affirmed. "Aegon Targaryen. That is who you are. We've kept you safe here and in other places like Esarth. Much of that was at Lord Varys' bidding, but the time for patience is done. It's been my own fear that has kept us here, my love for you, not wanting to see you struck down like your father was. But you are past a full-grown man now, and I'd already long grown tired of his soothing words about why we remain hidden.  
  
"We should have left for Westeros years ago, before you entered your twentieth year. Now we are five years past that and still we wait. And wait and wait! Lord Varys says, and Lord Varys says, and Lord Varys says! 'It's in chaos because of the Usurper's wife taking the Iron Throne, Wildings and nonsense such as giants and grumpkins and dead things come to life coming over the Wall.' This or that. 'Chaos,' he wrote. 'Chaos may sound like ripe pickings, the perfect time for our Young Griff to emerge, but it's the worst kind of chaos. Trust me,' he said." Moving forward, Jon slammed a mighty fist onto the table where Haldon sat. "No more!"  
  
The chainless maester jumped in his seat and glared at Jon. "Was that necessary?" He rose to his feet, smoothing his robes, and looked to Aegon. "We have heard from Illyrio Mopatis. There is a reason we haven't heard from Lord Varys in so long and why he advised to keep us at bay before then. It appears he was playing with two Targaryens. Your aunt, Daenerys, was his true coin, you were the back-up should she fail."  
  
The rush that Aegon had felt only moments before dissipated. "My aunt? Daenerys? She's alive?" And then he felt joy. He had family still. That was a good thing. "What about my uncle? Viserys?" Haldon looked to Jon, who was shaking his head wearily and Aegon knew that look. It was because he still found it hard to believe that anyone, even someone as young as Aegon, did not always see the worst in any situation at the first.  
  
"Viserys died years ago. He was killed by a Khal of the Dothraki. Your aunt's husband." Haldon informed him dryly.  
  
"My aunt—" Aegon looked between the two. "Daenerys Targaryen married a Dothraki Khal?"  
  
"Yes." Jon answered simply.  
  
"Why would she do that?"  
  
"It was the plan," Haldon shrugged. "Your uncle sold her to the Khal in exchange for his army to win back the Iron Throne. He failed." Aegon fell weakly into the chair that Haldon had abandoned earlier. "Cheer up, lad. Your aunt took over where your uncle failed. Illyrio gave us the whole story. She freed the Unsullied, hired the Second Sons, added them and the entire Khalasar to her army, freed Slaver's Bay and sailed to Westeros to claim the throne."  
  
Aegon gazed up at him in shock. "My aunt has the Iron Throne?"  
  
"Did I mention she had three dragons?"  
  
"Dragons?" Slowly, Aegon rose to his feet, shock reverberating through every fiber of his being. "Dragons," he repeated in a whisper.  
  
"She doesn't have the Throne, Aegon. Daenerys Targaryen is dead, like every other Targaryen," Jon bit out angrily. "So is Lord Varys."  
  
  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**  
  
The exultation had faded. Yes, it was incredible to be back in Westeros. _Back in Westeros_ , he thought to himself with a laugh. He was an infant smuggled out by a man who had been killed by the fiery breath of a dragon under his sister's order on this very island the last time he was in Westeros. Lord Varys. How different would things have played out had the man placed him first instead of his sister? Would he still be alive? Would Aegon be sitting on the Iron Throne right now instead of a broken man who claimed to see the past, present and future?  
  
Lord Varys was brilliant. He might not be a three-eyed raven, but he could see a potential future. He had the foresight all those years ago to predict that his grandfather would fall, and should he do so, the victors might not be kind to the remaining Targaryens. Jon had told him that Varys looked for a baby girl to pass off as Rhaenys but with such specific Dornish coloring to find one outside of Flea Bottom without raising suspicion was near impossible.  
  
So, it was only he who had been saved. And so many others had died. His sister, his mother. His uncle avenging them and his daughters avenging the Red Viper. His grandfather because he did not act. So much death and he was finally back here, yes, back in Westeros to bring peace once and for all to this Gods-forsaken land. It wasn't a peace that was there before Robert Baratheon had struck down his father at the Trident because family though he may have been, his grandfather, Aerys II, was a mad man. Westeros had not been a peaceful, fruitful land under his reign.  
  
Aegon walked to the window and looked out at the sea, grateful he wasn't once more on their crashing waves. He preferred solid ground. Resting his head upon the frame, he sighed. All he had heard of his father made him wonder at times if Rhaegar's reign would have been the one for which Westeros was waiting. But then the yearning hero worship for a father he had never known would subside and Aegon would admit the truth to himself. Rhaegar would have failed Westeros as surely as Aerys had. He was too selfish a man. He'd thrown his wife and children away to kidnap another man's betrothed. What kind of king would that have been? A selfish one.  
  
Aegon looked to the sea again. "Jon, where are you?" He thrust himself away from the window's view with a burst of energy and stalked towards the throne. It wasn't the one he wanted. The one he had trained and studied for, the one he had lived among the people, fished and sewed and hunted, learned and lived and laughed, cried and consoled and cared for. It wasn't the Iron Throne. Dragonstone was the Targaryen homestead, but it wasn't King's Landing, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.  
  
Seeing the Targaryen banners hanging high against the dark stone walls brought a smile to his face, but knowing that in the Red Keep, banners bearing the wolf instead of the dragon didn't keep the smile there very long. Aegon wanted to make his move, let Westeros know that Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar, was alive after all, call on his bannermen and take his rightful place. In order to do that, though, he needed information.  
  
It had been two weeks since Jon and Haldon had left Dragonstone seeking knowledge that could help their cause. All he knew as of now was that the dead had indeed come back to life. Wildings and giants and a Night King had sought to erase all mankind. The North and Daenerys with her dragons and armies had staved off that threat somehow.  
  
At least, this wouldn't be a battle that he would have to fight. Aegon sighed, knowing this was a good thing because he didn't have much of an army... or any army at all. Even though Duck considered himself worth at least ten fighters. Aegon allowed himself a smile at the thought, but that quickly faded when reality intruded once more. They had lost the Golden Company. Despite tentative arrangements made through Illyrio Mopatis, somehow, Cersei Lannister had gotten their official forces. Not much worth they had been for her though, thanks to his aunt's dragons, of course.  
  
"Dragons," Aegon whispered into the still air, wishing desperately that he had been able to see them before winter and fools had taken them away from Westeros again. He threw off that thought with a shake of his head. It did no good hoping for things that could not be. Right now, he had to concentrate on what was to come, and hope that one of those things would be an army. The only problem was that he didn't know of the likelihood of that or any other aid because he had no information. He had to wait.  
  
He sighed and sat on the throne that wasn't iron. He had no choice but to bide his time. Aegon Targaryen was a patient man. He had been patient for twenty-six years. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He opened them and in the barely lit room, his dark blue eyes looked Targaryen purple.  
  
The time to wait was coming to an end.  
  
  
**THE VIEW FROM** above the cliffside was magnificent. He could see the _Shy Maid_ anchored, and the dinghy as it rowed to shore, Jon, Haldon and a few of the crew as they stepped onto the sand. As he waited for Jon to make his way up to him, he gazed out at the vast sea. It was beautiful, a dark azure with slices of pale blue, silver and white cutting into the waves. The sky was clear; the winter air was crisp.  
  
Aegon took a deep, bracing breath. He wanted to embrace this moment, remember it. This was the beginning. What he learned from Jon today would inform his choices and he would decide the path that would lead to his destiny. That path would likely be fraught with mistakes and winding turns, but in the end, Aegon had faith that it would be where he was meant to be. He had been given the tools, the lessons to be the best man he could be to face any upcoming battle. And face it well he would.  
  
"Son," Aegon turned to Jon. Haldon had stayed below. It was just him. As it should be, this moment should be just the two of them.  
  
"Jon, welcome back." He smiled. He was ready. "What have you learned? Tell me all."  
  
Stepping forward, Jon took his own moment to take in the view. "It's nice," he said and then sighed. He clapped Aegon on the shoulder. "It's not all good." Aegon nodded, expecting this. "Very little of it is, I'm afraid."  
  
The young man turned around, and Jon's hand dropped to his side. This Aegon had not anticipated. That all that he had been preparing for seemed for naught through no fault of his own sent fury rushing through him. He tamped it down. "Very little," he said to himself softly, finding a kernel of hope within the words. He looked up at Jon. "That means there is some good. Tell me everything."  
  
"You are not the last Targaryen."  
  
Just as quickly as the anger had swept through him, joy filled him. "I am not—who? My sister? Rhaenys? Did Varys—was he able to find someone for her too?" He tripped over his own words in the excitement of having family, another Targaryen still in the world.  
  
Jon shook his head. "No, not your sister. Rhaenys is gone, that monster, Gregor Clegane, killed her when she was just a baby all those years ago."  
  
His eyes closing briefly, Aegon nodded. "Who then?"  
  
"Your father didn't kidnap Lyanna Stark."  
  
"What?" Aegon shook his head, confused at the turn of conversation.  
  
"Aegon, there's a lot here to take in. It's not going to be easy for you to hear." Jon reached out and once more laid a hand on Aegon's shoulder, this time a reassuring, comforting squeeze.  
  
Aegon nodded. "Go on."  
  
"Know that I didn't know any of this. I only found this out—" he broke off with an angry grunt. "I'm trying to piece this all together to make it make sense. Before we left Esarth, Illyrio sent a raven to the new Prince of Dorne, Quentyn Martell. The Dornish, the Ironborn, and a few Houses aren't happy with our new King or the North getting their own Kingdom. And they don't like the favoritism that the Starks are getting shown."  
  
"How is any Great House, even the Minor ones happy with it?" Aegon interrupted. "I'm sorry, I know I should just listen, but…" He trailed off.  
  
"No, it's a good question. It's because of the youngest Stark daughter. Arya Stark. Well, Arya Baratheon now."  
  
"Baratheon? As in Robert Baratheon? The Usurper?" Aegon ran a hand through his pale hair and let out a huff of frustration. "We've completely gotten off the subject of another Targaryen and my father, but… what?"  
  
"Believe it or not, it's all connected. Just hear me out, boy." He gave Aegon a stern look and Aegon felt like the boy that Jon had just called him. "Yes, Baratheon as in Robert. Arya Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, married Robert Baratheon's bastard. Gendry is his name. He was legitimized and given Storm's End and all of its titles by your aunt, Daenerys Targaryen—"  
  
"—Why would…" Aegon interrupted and then stopped at the warning finger held up by Jon.  
  
He continued. "Because there were no Baratheons left as far as anyone knew. Gendry was the weapons master in the fight against the Night King, I told you about him?" Aegon nodded. "And it was a good way to get the Baratheon bastard's loyalty by giving him a name and titles. So, Gendry Baratheon. And Ned Stark's daughter married him. But that's neither here nor there. It's Ned Stark's daughter, Arya Stark, that's keeping the majority of Houses at bay."  
  
"And that's because?"  
  
"She killed the Night King." Aegon's eyes widened. "She's known far and wide throughout all of Westeros as the Bringer of the Dawn, the old prophecy that Haldon told you of about the Prince that was Promised—"  
  
"That's me."  
  
"Prophecies are funny that way. They say now the language wasn't gender specific. It could have been prince or princess. Westeros has decided it was Princess. And Arya Stark is the Princess that was Promised."  
  
Aegon shook his head, finding himself unable to speak so Jon could carry on without interruption.  
  
"There are songs written about her in every tavern across Westeros far and wide. Then Gendry Baratheon gave up his Wardenship of the Southlands, and Storm's End to marry her and sail West of Westeros to be with her. So even more songs. Arya Stark is a legend. Most of Westeros are proud to have a Stark ruling because of that alone."  
  
Ignoring all of that nonsense about songs and the love story between the two, Aegon wanted to know the truth of what was apparently going to keep Houses from joining his cause. "How did she kill him?"  
  
Jon shrugged. Aegon rolled his eyes, not pleased with that non-response. He offered up a suggestion of his own then. "It was likely luck, some chance of happenstance, then?"  
  
"Probably. From what I've heard, she's just a little thing. All kinds of rumors about her. Her first kill was at age twelve. She trained with the Faceless Men of Braavos. Was a cupbearer for Tywin Lannister and survived. Traveled with the Hound, escaped the Red Wedding, took out the entire House of Frey. Fought Brienne of Tarth to a draw." Aegon didn't know who Brienne of Tarth was, but had heard about the horror of the Red Wedding and based on the rest of the list, he had to assume she was a mighty warrior, and that claim was as unbelievable as all the rest. "Ridiculous, the stories about her. Obviously, none of it true."  
  
"Of course." Aegon nodded. "So, she likely didn't even kill this Night King."  
  
"Likely. Some think it was her brother, Jon Snow, who did the deed. Still, it doesn't matter, Aegon. People believe what they want to believe, and it's kept most of the Houses and Wardens of Westeros content with the status quo."  
  
Aegon nodded, dismissing Arya Baratheon from his mind. She was no one to him, a girl built from songs and stories. Jon said she had sailed West with her Baratheon husband. Sailed to their death more like it, never to be heard of again. If the myths surrounding her became too much of a problem, he'd just have to disprove one of them and the rest would all fall apart. That would be easy enough. Perhaps find this Jon Snow, let Westeros know that he killed the Night King.  
  
"So we deal with the status quo. You mentioned the Prince of Dorne, the Ironborn, and there _are_ some Houses?"  
  
"Yes, but…"  
  
"But? What? Jon, why not just speak plainly?" Aegon sighed, frustration, irritation lining his tone. This was not like Jon.  
  
"I had hoped for better news, instead, it was not. There was promise of an alliance with Quentyn Martell, the Dornish Prince."  
  
"Good. That's something, but…"  
  
Jon spoke plainly at last. "He's dead." Aegon's shoulders sank. "I'm sorry. Some believe it was murder, a fire set to his room, others believe it was an accident, his robe caught aflame. Either way, the man is dead. Now his sister, Princess Arianne, is setting up court in Sunspear. We do have someone already there, Maester Caleotte, and I should be receiving word from him soon whether or not Arianne is of the same mind as Quentyn."  
  
His spirits lifting slightly, Aegon allowed himself a smile. "That is something, having Dorne as a potential ally. They should be. My mother was a princess of Dorne, after all. I am of Dorne as well. Now what of the Ironborn?"  
  
"I'm not sure where we stand with them. Yara Greyjoy is running things on the Iron Islands. She swore fealty to your aunt before she returned to Westeros and stood with her until the end. From what I've learned she has a contentious relationship with the Starks, but she did swear loyalty to Bran Stark, the king. Yet, there have been whispers that she's not pleased that the North has a kingdom while the Iron Islands do not."  
  
Aegon raised a brow. "In other words, when it comes to the Ironborn, you don't know what the situation is."  
  
"As I said. But I am still awaiting some more pieces of the puzzle. Perhaps Haldon will have a better eye at putting it together."  
  
"Perhaps, and of the Houses not swayed by Arya Stark?"  
  
Jon nodded. "A few, the most promising being House Baratheon, believe it or not." He held up a hand. "Before you ask, let me explain. I mentioned that her husband gave up Storm's End and the Wardenship. Your aunt gave him all of that because as far as anyone knew he was the only one with any Baratheon blood still alive. Turns out the Stark king with his all-seeing gaze knew of at least one other bastard that Joffrey Baratheon hadn't killed, an Edric Storm."  
  
"Cersei's bastard child of incest tried to have all of Robert Baratheon's bastards murdered?"  
  
"Yes. He missed at least two. Gendry and Edric. When Gendry gave it all up to be with Arya Stark, the king legitimized Edric as a Baratheon, gave him Storm's End, and named him Warden of the Stormlands."  
  
Aegon furrowed his brow. "I'm confused. If this new king gave him a name, a title, a castle, an entire region to hold wardenship over why would he align with us?"  
  
"Because while a man, he's still young and his mother has a say in his future, and she doesn't trust this king and how he favors the Starks. She reached out to Prince Quentyn who mentioned her to me in our last correspondence."  
  
"I see." Aegon nodded. "Still, we should be wary."  
  
"Yes." And then he said no more.  
  
Aegon waited. And then waited some more. Finally he spoke. "Jon, we can work with all of this. It is not all good, you said. Very little of it, but most of what you have spoken of thus far has not been bad. So what are you not telling me?" Jon still didn't speak. And Aegon knew then. He took in one more deep, bracing breath of the winter air. "What of my father and Lyanna Stark? Who is this other Targaryen?"  
  
Jon walked closer to the cliff's edge and looked out. "Jon?" The older man turned to look at him.  
  
"I didn't know." He shook his head, emphasizing the point. "Rhaegar didn't kidnap Lyanna Stark. They loved each other and ran off together. He had his marriage to your mother annulled and married Lyanna. They had a child. A boy. Your father named him Aegon. Aegon Targaryen. I'm sorry."  
  
Aegon stepped back. He felt as if he'd been punched in the gut, all the wind knocked out of him. Of all of the things that Jon could have said to him this was one he never could have expected. "He left my moth—" He began, and then stopped as the next thought overtook it. "I have a brothe—" And that one felt good until the next one formed. "He has my nam—" And he realized almost immediately. "The marriage was annul—" And that comprehension led to the final thought that broke the cycle. "I am a bastard."  
  
He looked at Jon. "I am a bastard. I am not a Targaryen. I am Aegon Waters." He laughed. "There is an Aegon Targaryen already in Westeros. He is not I."  
  
Jon walked over and took Aegon in his arms and embraced him. "No, that's not true. "No, no, no."  
  
Pulling away, Aegon swiped his hands through his hair repeatedly, the pale strands sliding through his fingers like silk. "But it is true, I am. He is. My brother. Aegon Targaryen. Not I. He. He is Aegon Targaryen. He is—"  
  
"No, you are still Aegon. You are still a Targaryen. And he is not Aegon Targaryen. He is Jon Snow."  
  
Aegon stopped, and looked to Jon, his eyes wide in shocked confusion. "What?!"  
  
"Your brother. He's a great warrior, I mentioned him already. He's the one that some believe actually killed the Night King. He's Arya Baratheon's brother or that's what he believed. He spent his whole life thinking that he was Ned Stark's bastard. Despite knowing that he isn't now, he hasn't taken the name he was born with. Hasn't taken the Targaryen name at all. He still goes by the name that was given to him for the story that the whole of Westeros believed. That your father kidnapped Stark's sister, Lyanna. Enough still do. About five moons ago, Lord Varys sent letters with the truth to some lords, but it was not common knowledge."  
  
"Why would he do that? Why?" The man had played them for so many years, put them through their paces, but he could forgive that if it meant that his aunt, Daenerys Targaryen, a woman he would join and wed eventually, would sit on the Iron Throne. But another betrayal? He needed to understand. "Why, Jon?"  
  
"Because he had turned his back on your aunt. He believed that she was following in the footsteps of your grandfather, the Mad King. He wanted to put this Jon Snow on the throne in her place." For the first time in his life, Aegon found himself hating someone, hating Lord Varys. "From what I have gathered, at first, Varys believed they could rule together."  
  
"As we were supposed to," Aegon said bitterly. "But I'm a bastard so he just threw me away like yesterday's garbage."  
  
"Aegon…"  
  
"Continue your story," he whispered harshly. He wanted to hear it all.  
  
"It was a love match. They, Jon Snow and your aunt, they were in love. When Varys changed his mind, I don't know, but he did. He believed Jon Snow was a good man and would rule well, better than Daenerys. For that betrayal, your aunt had him burned alive.  
  
"From what I've gathered, your brother remained loyal to Daenerys but there was no intention of a marriage. He may have been born a Targaryen, but he was raised a Stark, and incest is frowned upon. When your aunt rained dragon fire upon King's Landing, your brother was still by her side the following days, but something else happened, something worse many think, because he was the one who killed her."  
  
Jon shook his head and looked upward. "So many secrets, but once Daenerys was gone, Westeros had a new king, and Jon Snow was sent beyond the Wall that was no more in punishment, suddenly everyone who knew something was talking. Whispers shared from one person to another and then another until the whole story was out there for anyone to pick up the threads and read it all."  
  
Aegon closed his eyes in pain. He couldn't say for whom he felt it. For himself, for losing his name, his sense of self. For his mother, for losing her love, her husband, her children's legacy. For his aunt, for losing her life at the hand of her lover. For his new-found brother, for having to take the life of his love, his family because of her terrible actions. For the people of King's Landing, the people that he had been raised to protect and serve. For all of them, himself included. Too many. Too much death.  
  
He opened his eyes. And it was no longer pain he was feeling. Now it was anger. He looked inward and realized it was deeper, stronger than that. It was rage. He felt rage towards Varys that he was just another one of his pieces on a cyvasse board to move around as he so chose. More than that man who he'd never met, the one who he had known only as an infant, his father, Rhaegar Targaryen. Aegon felt such fury towards him. Fury that he had discarded and replaced his mother and then replaced his own son giving that child his very same name.  
  
He turned to Jon, that fury burning in his soul. "I don't care if I'm a bastard Targaryen. I don't care if I was replaced by my father, a man who threw away the Iron Throne and his own honor when he threw away my mother, me and my sister by running away with a woman who was betrothed to another. I will fulfill my destiny as a Targaryen even if I am Aegon Waters. I will do what Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen could _not_ do. I will reclaim the Iron Throne and give myself the Targaryen name once more. A new Targaryen dynasty will reign for a thousand years."  
  
Jon looked at him sadly. It wasn't exactly the reaction he expected after his bold pronouncement. "Son, the Iron Throne is no more. Your aunt's dragon melted it down after her death."  
  
Aegon looked at him steadily, shrugging off yet another failure of Daenerys Targaryen. Silent rage turned the dark blue of his eyes purple. "Then I will forge a greater throne than even Aegon the Conqueror from the fallen swords of any House that doesn't bow down before the Dragon."

**—THE NEXT CHAPTER: THE WOMAN WITHOUT A MIRROR—**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned in the original notes how I modified the arcs of book characters to mesh with the television series as much as possible. I did this with the [Aegon (son of Rhaegar and Elia Martell)](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Aegon_Targaryen_\(son_of_Rhaegar\)), Jon Connington (yeah, you can thank George R.R. Martin for not only giving TWO book characters the name of Jon, but giving TWO characters the exact same name: Aegon Targaryen... *sigh*) and his guardians.
> 
> BTW, what are ya'll thinking about the chapter titles?


	11. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 10: Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa thinks about Tyrion's letter, thinks back on stories she heard about Daenerys Targaryen and time spent with Tyrion. She also meets with House Mormont's maester.
> 
>  **Characters** : Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister  
>  **Relationships** : Tyrion/Sansa
> 
> * * *

**** THE WOMAN WITHOUT A MIRROR  
** **

**SANSA SHIVERED IN** the cold air. Rubbing her hands together, she gathered her dark grey cloak about her and settled on the great stone before the Godswood tree. As a young girl, she had rarely been out here and after her return, she had only visited three times before becoming queen. Once to wed Ramsey Bolton. That night came back to her only in shards of memory now. The tremble of Theon's hand as he walked her toward the monster who would become her husband. The flames flickering in the darkness. The red sap on the face of the Heart tree, its bloody tears weeping for her. The white of her wedding fur brushing against her icy cheek. She would never wear white again.  
  
She reached out and laid a hand on the Godswood tree. The second time that she had made her way to this spot was filled with chaos and madness, screams of pain, shouts of confusion and exultation filling the air as the undead finally died. With Tyrion by her side, she found Bran as calm as ever gazing at Jon while Arya knelt before his chair, the catspaw dagger still in her hand. The dagger that had once tried to take her little brother's life had just saved it and all of humanity. Thanks to Arya. Not Jon, but Arya who had been off doing what the Gods only knew while they had been separated. Whatever it was had been lesson enough to save them all.  
  
She rushed to the three of them, her hand falling in support onto the Heart tree, and the memory of Ramsey was lost in the rush of relief that her family still lived. They had survived. From that moment on, his stain could no longer endure in this place where the Starks prayed, looked for absolution, and searched for answers. And sometimes received for more than they asked.  
  
When the last of the Starks gathered here it was also the third and last time that she had prior to becoming regent. It was then that Jon told them he wasn't Ned Stark's son, but the child of Lyanna Stark, rather Lyanna Targaryen. She hadn't been kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen, but had run away and married him, leaving her betrothed to wage war and an entire country in ruins for decades to come. Sansa thought now as she had then what a selfish woman her aunt turned out to be. The actions that she and Rhaegar had taken had left Westeros torn apart. As well as her family. Ever strong going back as far as the Age of Heroes, the Starks had always been a pack, but now even in peace, they were scattered all over.  
  
Arya was off sailing West of Westeros with Robert Baratheon's bastard. Legitimized by the Dragon Queen he might be, but a bastard in manner and speech. Not that Arya cared. Sansa sighed; her heart heavy, aware that her sister was most likely lost to her forever. West of Westeros was essentially a death sentence. But she supposed if anyone could come back from even that, it would be the Bringer of the Dawn herself. Sansa rolled her eyes. How Arya hated all the grand titles and adulation the North had rained down upon her after the fall of the Night King. If she did return, _please come home, Arya!_ , she would be mortified at how songs had spread across the entirety of Westeros of her exploits.  
  
Then there was Bran off in King's Landing, thousands of miles away. Sansa let out a huff of laughter, still, even many moons later, trying to wrap her mind around the fact that her brother, little Bran, was the King of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. "No," she corrected herself softly. "Six. It's Six Kingdoms. The North is its own kingdom because of me." She allowed herself a smile at that. She had done that. Sansa Stark, the silly girl who liked lemon cakes and pretty dresses. Who would have believed it? Her smile grew. Tyrion, her husband, not-husband. Now her brother's Hand. It was good that Bran had him by his side. Tyrion Lannister was a better man than most realized.  
  
Sighing, Sansa thought of the latest letter that she had received from him. It was lovely. He deserved to be loved, deserved to know that his mother had loved him, wanted him. She was happy to know that he and Bran were getting on well. The questions he asked of her, though, she wasn't ready to answer. Some she would admit she didn't want to ask of herself. Others she didn't know. And one in particular she was still waiting on the answer. Namely, her brother, Jon. It had been nearly six moons and as many letters she had sent and not one reply. He would forgive her someday she was sure. _He must._  
  
Sansa thought back to the last time she saw him on the dock in King's Landing before he set sail to head back to the Wall, or rather beyond the Wall was more like it if she knew him. She had asked him to forgive her then. He hadn't been able to. She knew he understood why she had done what she had. She had freed the North and would speak well for them. He said as much, but he could not say that he forgave her. Sansa's eyes shut quickly in an effort to stem the sudden sting of tears. He still loved her, giving into her farewell embrace, but she knew it didn't mean forgiveness. He still held her to blame in part for the death of Daenerys Targaryen.  
  
Sansa opened her eyes and gave a quick shake of her head, banishing the urge to cry. She rose to her feet. "I did what I must." Her lips firmed. "Just as he did." She thought that now just as she had when she heard that Jon had been the one to slay the dragon queen. If only he had listened to her, believed her when she warned him not to trust that Targaryen.  
  
**—EIGHT MOONS BEFORE—**  
  
The firepits in the great hall were being cleaned when Sansa walked in and Rohn and Weldon were talking in shocked tones too low for her to hear. She was curious, though. In days past, she would have moved on, leaving them to their own conversation, but this wasn't days past. The dead were among them, armies from the East commanded by a Targaryen with dragons in tow surrounded Winterfell ostensibly to aid them. Sansa needed to know everything. She moved closer.  
  
"Maybe you heard wrong, Rohn. You know they don't speak the Westerosi tongue," Weldon was saying, his manner uneasy.  
  
Rohn shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "No, it was one of them with their cocks cut off." Sansa winced. "He can speak good enough. I heard that she ordered all of the masters nailed to crosses."  
  
"Alive?"  
  
"Alive and in the hot, burning sun until they died." Rohn winced and began scrubbing at the firepit some more.  
  
Sansa cleared her throat and Rohn and Weldon turned around to face her, straightening up. "Daenerys Targaryen, I presume." It wasn't a question. "And why did she do that? Did you hear that?" Before thinking the worst of the woman, she wanted to know more. After all, she herself had fed Ramsey Bolton to a pack of ravenous hunting dogs and watched with pleasure while they ate him alive.  
  
"Uh, milady, yes. I did. It was the Dragon Queen and—"  
  
"Don't call her that. Her name is Daenerys Targaryen." Sansa may have trust issues with the woman, but Jon loved her, and Daenerys was here with her army and dragons to save the North and fight the undead. Until proven otherwise, she wasn't ready to hear her be disrespected.  
  
"Yes, milady. Queen Daenerys," and Sansa sighed because she didn't want the woman given a title that didn't belong to her either, but she let it go. It was more important to find out the full story of these claims. "The Unsullied warriors said that she nailed the masters—"  
  
"Masters of what?"  
  
"Slaves." Sansa nodded, and Rohn continued. "That's why she did it. To show the masters she was in command. And she burned their master with her dragon. The biggest one, that one that she rides, milady. And the Dothraki, their temple, she burned that too when she was in it but walked out untouched by the flames. She burned a witch on a funeral pyre. And she burned—"  
  
"She's burned many people it seems." Sansa interjected, thinking of those in Westeros who had fallen prey to Daenerys' fire as well, such as the kin of Samwell Tarly.  
  
Weldon nodded. "She has dragons, milady."  
  
"That she does." She looked pointedly to the firepit. "Thank you." The two men gave small bows and returned to their duty.  
  
Walking away, she thought over what they had told her. Sansa had heard that Daenerys Targaryen had closed down Slaver's Bay, but not her methods. Sighing, she wasn't sure if the ends justified the means. What would Lord Eddard Stark think of torture, nailing men to crosses, burning people alive to reach a desired state? Sansa knew the answer well enough. He would not approve and while her father was far too noble to survive as his death had shown, his goodness was something to aspire to, not cast away. Still, stories told second and thirdhand were often not the whole or sometimes even the reality of the situation. Perhaps if she could find someone that she trusted to tell her what really happened, she might know better what to do about Daenerys Targaryen.  
  
  
**TYRION WAS IN** the library enjoying their limited supply of Dornish wine. Naturally.  
  
"Sansa, come, join me!" He set down the book he was reading and rose to his feet, moving to greet her. Gallantly, he took her hand and placed a kiss there.  
  
She couldn't help but smile even as she narrowed her eyes at him. "You're drunk."  
  
"Of course I am!" Taking her arm, he awkwardly tucked it in the crook of his and led her to the light grey sofa. "Sit, sit. Join me. After all, the end is nigh!" She sat down.  
  
Moving swiftly, Tyrion grabbed the decanter of wine from the desk and then two glasses from the sideboard before returning to her. He poured them each a drink and settled comfortably down. Turning to face her, he smiled. "Hello."  
  
"Hello, Tyrion. Exactly how many bottles of our Dornish have you gone through?"  
  
He frowned, cocked his head, clearly pondering very hard on the matter. "I think two. No…" He held up a finger and then two more, correcting the number. "Three." He smiled widely, very proud of himself. "Three, it was three." He pointed to the bottle sitting on the table before them. "That makes four." Picking up the glasses, he handed one to her and took a quick sip of his. "You can help finish this one." She shook her head. "No, no, come now. If we're all going to die in a few weeks, don't let it be said that we left good Dornish wine undrank… undrunk? Yes. Undrunk." He touched two fingers to the bottom of her glass and pushed it closer to her mouth. "So, drink, drink. Enjoy!" He waggled his finger at her. "Don't let me have all the fun, my wife," he paused, considering, "not-wife."  
  
Rolling her eyes, Sansa threw her head back and gave in. She took a drink. And then another. He was right, it was good. And if they were all going to die, they might as well not let the Dornish wine go to waste, and it wasn't fair that Tyrion be the only one to enjoy it.  
  
"That's the spirit." He let out a bark of laughter and downed the rest of his wine in one gulp. Sansa giggled. She took a long draught of hers. And then one more. He held up the bottle and gave a little shake. "Yes?" She nodded. He poured them both another glass. As a pair, they seemed to decide to take their time with this one, sipping slowly.  
  
She was quiet, enjoying the moment, feeling completely at ease. There was a slight chill in the air. Winter was, after all, here at last. But with Tyrion by her side she was warm. His shoulder against her arm, his thigh pressed against hers, she felt a tingling in the pit of her belly. She supposed it was from the alcohol. She felt almost uncomfortable in her own skin, but not. It was pleasant, but more than. It was almost unpleasant, but not. It was… she didn't know. There was a wanting for something. She sighed. More of the Dornish red likely.  
  
But… she had come looking for Tyrion for a reason and it was not a conversation that either would find pleasant.  
  
"I need to ask you about your queen."  
  
Tyrion grumbled something that she couldn't make out and rose to his feet. Sansa immediately missed the warmth of his body next to hers. That tingle in her belly turned to a lump of disappointment.  
  
"Must you?" He looked to her, his eyes beseeching and then he straightened, the drunken, almost-happy husband, not-husband of moments before gone in the blink of an eye. "You must." He sighed. "What is it, Lady Stark?" That hurt. It shouldn't have. It was her title, after all. But she liked how he called her by her first name. _Sansa._ There was always a softness, a sweetness in the way he said it, like he couldn't quite believe that he had the honor of doing so. When he called her "Lady Stark" it was just a title, nothing more. They were playing politics.  
  
Two could play that game. She rose to her feet. Yes, he was a small man, but his intellect and charisma were towering, and he used them well. Her weakness was in her gender. She was a woman, and she had been broken over and over by men, by a society who saw women as weakness. She used that as a strength now. She had rebuilt herself and was stronger for it. And where he was small, she was tall, taller than even most men and she used that too. If she was just a title to him, a political piece to move, then so was he to her. "Lord Lannister, I have heard disturbing stories about your queen."  
  
"Ah," he offered, hands folded behind his back, giving her nothing. He moved across the room, moved so that he could meet her gaze without having to look up at her.  
  
"She nailed men to crosses, leaving them to die of thirst and hunger in the boiling sun." Her voice was sharp, rising as she recounted the horrid tales she had heard. "She burned women and men alike alive all across Essos. She—"  
  
"Had her reasons." There was a hint of frustration there in his tone. She could hear it, and Sansa found very quickly that she was wrong. She could not hold to a political game, not with Tyrion. Not as she had when he first arrived.  
  
"She had her reasons! That is your justification, Tyrion?" They had spent too much time together since then, the games she had learnt at Littlefinger's hand only worked with those she cared naught for. Tyrion was not such. She knew him too well. Knew him too well to be a good man. She needed more. Sansa shook her head in disbelief, her lips parting to speak but Tyrion was already defending his queen, and apparently, emotionless games didn't work any better from him with her either. He said her name, and raw emotion filled his words.  
  
"Sansa, you don't know her! She is a good woman. She wants what is best for Westeros. She did _good_ things in Essos! In Astapor! In Meereen! She stopped slavery. Those men she nailed? I wasn't there, but I heard what happened from those who were. Grey Worm. Missandei. Ser Jorah. Those men were masters who had nailed 163 slave children along the road to Meereen as a warning to Daenerys. They killed 163 children to send a message to one woman. So, yes, Daenerys returned the favor. 163 of the masters nailed to crosses to die of thirst and hunger in the hot sun. It was justice served, Sansa!"  
  
She looked down and away, trying to erase the horror of the images his words created in her mind.  
  
"Did she make mistakes? Yes. Is she perfect? No. But she's a good woman. She has a vision for Westeros. She wants to break the endless cycle of this House on top, that House on top. Lannister, Baratheon, Stark, Tyrell, Targaryen. She wants to crush that cycle. Break that wheel."  
  
"And the Tarlys?" Sansa wanted to be moved by his pretty words. And they were pretty, and she wanted to believe him. If what he said of Daenerys Targaryen's actions in Essos were true, then she was the queen that Tyrion and Jon swore her to be. However, some things Sansa had heard still needed to be accounted for. "Did she start with them? By burning Sam's kinfolk alive for doing what? Being loyal to their queen? You know that I have no love for your sister, but Cersei is their lawful queen and Daenerys burned them alive for remaining loyal subjects to the crown. How do you justify that, Tyrion?"  
  
He sighed and moved close once more, sitting down. Reaching out for the decanter, he poured himself another drink and emptied the glass before responding. "I don't." He looked up at Sansa, his eyes bleak. "I suggested that we send Randall Tarly to the Wall, but he refused to go. He said she wasn't his queen. He chose death. And then his son, he joined the father. I tried to convince the boy, Dickon, to bend the knee. As did his father. I didn't want to end another Noble House. I counseled that she put him in chains for a few weeks. She would not do it. She knew that others would take that option if it was available to them. The choice was to bend the knee or die. They both made theirs and she would not let the boy live." He ran a weary hand over his face. His voice was low when he spoke again. "I said she has made mistakes."  
  
Sansa slowly sank back down onto the seat next to him. Her voice was soft, concern and frustration in her tone, as she begged him to hear his own words. "Burning men alive is a mistake?" He looked up at her and in his eyes, she could see it. He did not say anything. He would not say anything, but there was doubt.  
  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**  
  
Sansa folded the well-read letter from Tyrion and set it on her desk. She had it from him for a fortnight and had still to respond. She told herself it was because she was waiting for word from Jon and that once she received it, she would be able to finally have news for Tyrion about him. Sansa knew that was a lie. She had yet to write him back because of the questions he had asked about her. About being the Queen of the North, how it felt, how she was.  
  
She sighed. One of the things that she hadn't appreciated about Tyrion when they had first found themselves betrothed, but she did now was his ability to acknowledge truths even when they were uncomfortable. That was something she found hard to do for herself. It was why she was shying away from answering his questions. She was happy for the North. She was happy that it was its own kingdom. She was…  
  
"Your Grace?"  
  
Sansa looked up and Lord Orwen stood there patiently. The second son of House Whitehill, a Minor house that had loyally followed the Starks through every war and siege and battle of the last eight years, he had humbly offered his service as her Hand upon her return to the North as its Queen. Reserved and intelligent, Orwen suited her well, just as then, he always seemed to know when she needed his assistance. Or a distraction.  
  
"Yes, Orwen?" She offered a smile and slipped Tyrion's letter into a drawer. "What have you for me?"  
  
The tall, thin man strode forward silently, his expression serene. "Maester Trevas from House Mormont is here to see you, Your Grace."  
  
An eyebrow raised, Sansa slid into her seat and rested her elbows before her. "Mormont, you say. With the death of Lady Lyanna and Ser Jorah during the Long Night, House Mormont is no more."  
  
"Yes, Your Grace, as we all believed. That is what Maester Trevas is here to discuss with you. The future of the House."  
  
"There is no future."  
  
Orwen cocked his head. "Perhaps."  
  
Intrigued, Sansa rose to her feet and walked to the sideboard table. "In five minutes show him to the throne room." She lifted open the lid of a carved box and pulled out her crown. It was beautiful. She took a moment to appreciate all that it meant before placing it over her red hair. She no longer needed a mirror to know that it sat perfectly there.  
  
  
**OTHER THAN THE** guards stationed at the entrance when she entered, the throne room was empty when she arrived. Sansa allowed herself the hint of a smile. Taking the two steps necessary to reach her newly carved throne, she settled into her seat. Straightening the lines of her black gown, she folded her hands in her lap and composed her expression. The Queen of the North looked straight ahead just as the doors opened and Lord Orwen came in, a stout man right behind him, red-faced and hopeful-looking.  
  
Swiftly, Orwen moved to stand at the bottom of the steps. "Maester Trevas of House Mormont," he announced. The maester stopped several feet before her throne and offered up a low bow. Sansa nodded.  
  
"Maester Trevas. House Mormont did the North a great honor with its sacrifice." She paused, recalling the young, brave Lyanna. "The North remembers."  
  
A wavering smile lit the man's face as tears glimmered in the corner of his eyes. "Thank you, Your Grace. Yes, the North remembers. Our valiant Lady Lyanna will never be forgotten. Yes, yes." He wrung his hands together. "I appreciate your kind words, but I am not here to honor the memory of that great lady."  
  
Sansa raised a brow. "Then why exactly are you here, Maester Trevas?" Before he could reply, she realized the answer. "You want to know who I have decided to gift Bear Island to since House Mormont is no more." She nodded. "I suppose you have counsel on that matter as you know its people well. How long have you been with House Mormont?"  
  
He shook his head. "Your Grace, you misunderstand why I'm here."  
  
Looking to Orwen, she sought guidance, a quick answer, but he appeared as in the dark as she. She stood up. "Maester Trevas, speak plainly then. What do you want from me?"  
  
"House Mormont is not gone. Ser Jorah has a daughter. She's come back to us. We knew nothing of her."  
  
Sansa once again turned to her Hand. "Did you?" He gave a quick shake of his head. "Maester Trevas, tell me what you do know now."  
  
A smile once more graced the maester's face, this time full and proud. "Her name is Lynorah Mormont. We received a raven from White Harbor over a moon ago. She is making her way haste to us by land. As I said, she is Jorah's daughter. His child with his wife, Lynesse."  
  
Narrowing her eyes, Sansa tried to remember the name but couldn't recall. She looked to Orwen and he supplied the information. "Ser Jorah wed the young and beautiful Lynesse after a successful tourney at Lannisport many years ago. Rumor was that she was accustomed to a wealthier lifestyle than Bear Island could provide. It was that which led Ser Jorah to turn to selling poachers—"  
  
"For which my father condemned him to death." Sansa finished.  
  
"Yes, a sordid tale, and the rumor your Hand speaks of is indeed true. And when Ser Jorah fled his punishment, he took the Lady Lynesse with him." Maester Trevas added. "But Lynorah was born before then. In 285 A.C. The young lady has been with her Aunt Malora all this while, but she passed and heard of the death of her father and Lady Lyanna."  
  
"And you believe this tale?" Sansa was incredulous.  
  
"Aye, Your Grace, I do. The story she tells adds up thus far. In 284 A.C., Lady Lynesse was gone for five moons to visit her sister, Malora. This Lynorah claims that she has the ring that Ser Jorah gave to his wife with the Mormont sigil that she did not have upon her return. I remember that too because Ser Jorah was most unhappy about it. It had been passed down through the generations. That is not a simple claim to make, and one easily disproven. I have questions, of course. And I'll want to see the ring with my own eyes and look upon her to see if she looks like a Mormont or Lady Lynesse, but I've been with House Mormont for decades and I've kept the records, all is as she says."  
  
Sansa tapped her fingers against her gown. Truly she did not want to lose another House, especially one that was loyal to the Starks and always had been. She looked to the maester.  
  
"When she arrives, bring this Lynorah Mormont to me. I want to meet her. Let us see if House Mormont lives on still."  
  
Maester Trevas expressed unbridled gratitude and bowed as he backed out of the throne room. Sansa watched him go, her smile fading once he was gone, but her thoughts remained on House Mormont. She had selfish reasons to hope this Lynorah Mormont was telling the truth. Ser Jorah had been loyal and steadfast to his queen, Daenerys Targaryen. Lyanna Mormont was ever faithful to Jon, her bastard brother, naming him King of the North, failing to even propose the idea that Sansa, the legitimate Stark that had been there far longer, lead them. Perhaps this Mormont would be the one who finally followed her.  
  
Not that it mattered. She wore the crown now. Turning, she looked to her throne. She thought of Tyrion's letter, tucked away in her solar.  
  
_You have what you've always wanted. You are the Queen of the Kingdom. It's not the Kingdom of Westeros, but even better, it's the Kingdom of your home, the North. Do tell me how it is, what is it like? For me personally, I never understood the fascination with wanting to be on the throne. I always found it much more exciting running things behind the throne, but that is me. Yes, again, talking about myself. You, you, how are YOU?_  
  
How was she? She did have what she always wanted. Didn't she? So how was she? Why couldn't she bring herself to answer Tyrion's question?

**—THE NEXT CHAPTER: THE QUEEN IN SPIRIT—**


	12. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 11: Yara I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yara reflects on her diminished place in Westeros with the fall of Daenerys, and her relationship with the Starks. She begins to plot for a better future.
> 
>  **Characters** : Yara Greyjoy, Arya Stark, Sansa Stark, Harras Harlaw  
>  **Relationships** : Arya & Sansa, Yara & Harras
> 
> * * *

** THE QUEEN IN SPIRIT **

**CROWMAR HAD CARVED** a ship for Theon when he was barely past two summers. It was the one toy of his that he wouldn't share with her even though he had named the fucking thing 'Yara.' Of course her name was one of the few words that he knew how to say. And that was one of the many reasons that Balon Greyjoy found his son weak. Because he learned his sister's name before his father's.  
  
Turning the small, wooden ship over in her hand, Yara marveled that it was still here. When everything else that her little brother had touched was gone or had turned to shit, _Yara_ remained. The night that Lord Stark had taken Theon prisoner, she had crept into his chamber, afraid that come light her father would have done away with everything to do with his son. While the house slept, she had stolen the ship just as the Northerner had stolen her brother.  
  
When her father sacrificed his son to Ned Stark to ensure peace, all she had left of Theon was this wooden toy. So many summers and kings and wars later, when Theon sacrificed himself for Ned Stark's son, here she sat with nothing but that same fucking wooden toy, while the Starks had everything. Yara threw it across the room with a cry torn from her throat, one of frustration and anguish, defeat and rage.  
  
**—FOUR MOONS BEFORE—**  
  
A private solar had been set up for the visiting seats of each so-called kingdom. Yara hadn't much use for it, preferring to keep company with the commoners, the sailors and whores of Flea Bottom rather than the nobles of the South and the Starks of the North. After the choosing of their new king and the mockery of justice for the murder of Daenerys Targaryen, it was time to make an exception. Lucky for her, the very person she wanted to see stood at the window, still as a statue, dressed much as Yara remembered her father had been the day he had taken Theon all those years ago.  
  
"You dare to threaten me, little girl!" Yara snarled.  
  
There was no movement, no reaction at all from Arya Stark, the much-heralded Bringer of the Dawn. Of course, she had reached the Godswood in time to save her precious kin, but not that of Yara's. What was a Greyjoy worth to a Stark? Theon was dead while this one and her brothers and sister lived still. Yara took a step forward and placed her hand on the dagger at her side wondering if she dared.  
  
"When I was a little girl, Theon teased me." Yara’s hand fell away with a start as Arya's words suddenly filled the silence. "He called me an ugly little thing. Said that Sansa got all the beauty. He said that even Robb and my bastard brother were prettier than me." Her voice was quiet, very little emotion in her reminiscing until she told Yara one more thing, then she could hear a thread of anger come through. "He always made sure to remind me and everyone else of the fact that Jon was the bastard of Winterfell."  
  
Yara sighed. "Theon was always a shit." She blinked away an unwanted tear, refusing to cry in front of a Stark. "But he was still my brother."  
  
Arya finally turned to look at her, the younger woman's face was a mask. "And Jon is mine. Would you not defend Theon if he were here no matter his actions?"  
  
Yara surged forward, grief fueling her sudden movement. "But he's not, is he? He's dead, defending your brother, Brandon Stark, our new king!" She spat. "And for what? For nothing! He died just so a Stark could come in too late and let _my_ brother die but, she could save her own—" she wiped at the angry tears that fell because she could not stop their furious fall no matter how she tried. Arya moved towards her cutting her off with cold words, hissed between clenched teeth.  
  
"Theon Greyjoy sacrificed himself repaying a debt of betrayal to the Starks. First to my brother, Robb, his liege lord, his king—"  
  
"King?!" Yara scoffed.  
  
"Yes! King! Theon was there by his side, raising his glass proclaiming Robb Stark the King of the North, so said Edmure Tully and the few others who escaped the horror of the Red Wedding who were there that night that Robb became king." Arya moved closer, meeting Yara's gaze. "You as well as I know what your brother did in turn to my brother."  
  
Yara shook her head, protesting before Arya could say a word. "He's Ironborn," but she was unmoved and continued.  
  
"Do Ironborn betray their own brothers?"  
  
Drawing in a breath, Yara's eyes narrowed in outrage. Her lips parted, ready to tear this young woman apart for daring to even ask such a question, but Arya Stark wasn't done.  
  
"Because that's what Robb was to Theon." Yara took a step back, wordlessly shaking her head. Arya nodded, her voice rising. "Yes," she said. "Robb was like a brother to him, he said as much many a time and Theon said the same to him just as often, and Theon betrayed him. He attacked Winterfell. He brought your Ironborn and attacked Winterfell, the home where he had been fed and clothed and housed and treated like family. He had been loved and cared for, treated as one of our own..." Arya's voice shook slightly, but forged on.  
  
"He killed Ser Rodrik. He threatened Bran and Rickon, killed two little boys under the protection of the Starks and made us all believe…" She broke off, this time unable to continue and for the first time that Yara had ever met her she saw open emotion on this Stark's face. It was devastation. And then it was gone, but it had been there; it was real, and it was everything that Yara herself felt when she thought of the little brother that she had lost.  
  
She wanted desperately to defend her brother's honor. She knew all that he had done, but hearing it from those he had wronged, seeing the pain it had wrought… she could not.  
  
Arya Stark was not done. Because it wasn't just pain that she was feeling. It was anger. That Yara could understand too. "Theon Greyjoy was a coward and a traitor. He deserved—"  
  
"Arya!" Yara spun around to find the other Stark sister standing in the doorway, her red hair framing her pale face, her blue eyes wide in shock. "Stop. Just stop it, please. You don't know what happened with Theon. What he went through." The confidence that the new queen had held herself with in the Dragon Pit was gone. A shadow covered her now, a darkness that was familiar to Yara in a way that she couldn't put her finger on.  
  
"It doesn't matter what he went through." Arya argued. "What he did to Robb, to Bran and Rickon. To Ser Rod—"  
  
"He was with me when I was with Ramsey, Arya." Her voice was low, and Yara understood. She recognized that darkness now. "He was with Ramsey Bolton for much longer than I was." Her voice dropped even lower. "Much, much longer." She moved forward, past Yara almost as if she didn't even see her. She took the younger woman's hands. "He helped me escape. He helped me survive once I did."  
  
Sansa turned to look at Yara, and then back to Arya. "It matters." She moved to Yara, meeting her gaze. "She doesn't know, truly."  
  
"How can she not?" Yara spit out the words, tired of these Starks even though she felt for what Sansa Stark must have gone through with that Bolton bastard.  
  
"She was gone. When the Lannisters took our father's head, Arya escaped King's Landing and was believed dead until she showed up at Winterfell less than eight moons ago. She was across the Narrow Sea for much of that time. Lady Yara, she truly did not know."  
  
Sighing, Yara ran a hand through her hair and nodded. She had heard stories of the youngest Stark daughter believed to be dead. "Fine, so you know that Theon went through hell because of Ramsey Bolton. And he hated himself for betraying Robb Stark and taking Winterfell, and what he did to Bran and the other one—"  
  
"Rickon. Our baby brother. Who is dead now." Arya pointed out.  
  
"So is mine." Yara reminded her. _So is mine,_ she thought to herself and the anger with which she had said the words passed and she felt such sadness because so was theirs. They, all three, had lost their baby brothers and it was just so fucking sad. And wrong. And Theon had died protecting yet another baby brother, ah, but he had succeeded. Their actual brother, and one who was like such to him. Bran Stark. She looked at them, catching them both in her sight.  
  
"That is why Theon wanted to be there for your brother. I was not only his sister, but his queen and I gave him leave to be with the Starks. To be by Bran's side. To save him."  
  
Sansa went to her and took her hand, moving them swiftly to the chaise before Yara even realized it was happening. They were seated side by side and Sansa was looking at her so gratefully that Yara almost believed her. She did believe her. "Theon saved my life. My sanity in many ways the last few moons at Winterfell with," she paused and closed her eyes briefly before opening them to meet Yara's gaze, her own now steel, "Ramsey Bolton. When he came back to Winterfell with… with the others, there was peace and Bran and he, they were good." She looked over her shoulder to make sure her sister was listening.  
  
"You remember how insistent Theon was that he be the one to guard Bran in the Godswood?" Arya nodded. "It could have been you, or Jon, or your Gendry—"  
  
"He's not my Gendry," Arya mumbled even as Sansa continued. Yara didn't know who the fuck this Gendry was, and she didn't care.  
  
"It could have been Tormund or Ser Podrick or Brienne—"  
  
"Yes, Sansa, we get it. It could have been any number of great warriors, but Theon insisted because he wanted to make up for the awful shit he'd been to Bran." Arya succinctly pointed out, and Yara had the unnerving thought that if she didn't hate Arya Stark, she could actually like her.  
  
Sansa sighed and nodded. "Yes. He insisted because he needed to. Because despite what you believe because you were off doing what you were doing and don't know, Theon became a man of honor. He earned his place by Bran's side. He was a good man. I don't want to ever hear you speak ill of him again. You may have been the one to kill the Night King, but as you tell everyone when they try and give you the glory, you couldn't have done it alone. Without Sandor Clegane and Beric Dondarrion saving you in the halls of Winterfell, without Gendry making your weapon, without Jon bringing everyone together, me keeping the people of the North housed and fed and from falling apart, without Bran putting all of the pieces into play you wouldn't have been where you needed to be."  
  
Arya leaned against the table, folding her hands before her. "That's true." Yara was quiet, taking in the information as one who hadn't been there during the battle of the Long Night and had only heard that her brother died defending Bran Stark, Arya Stark had killed the Night King and brought the Dawn and one more thing. She wondered if the sisters would mention that.  
  
"One other very important piece was Theon protecting Bran," Sansa added quietly, answering Yara's unspoken question. "Had he not fought as long and as valiantly as he had to keep Bran alive, it would all have been for nothing. What Theon did for all of us, for all of humanity," she let out a sad sigh, "there should be songs for him too."  
  
"Theon wasn't the only important piece, though, was he?" Yara had to ask, grateful as she was to hear her brother given his due, he wasn't the only one they owed a debt to. Of course, they had not mentioned her name or all that she had done for the North at all.  
  
Both Sansa and Arya looked to her, confusion on both faces. "Of course not," Sansa said immediately. "There were many moving parts of the plan. And they all came into play."  
  
"And they all failed," Arya rolled her eyes. "Every single one. What I did wasn't a plan. It was just that as everything was falling apart all of my years training for what I thought was revenge turned out to be for that."  
  
"But in order to get to _that_ , all of those pieces had to get into place, yes?" Yara insisted.  
  
"Yes." Arya agreed, her eyes narrowing. "Your point?"  
  
"Daenerys Targaryen. You talk of songs and heroes and honor and saving humanity, but nowhere does she get any credit for the part she played, the important piece that she was. She brought her dragons and her armies, the Unsullied, the Dothraki and she helped save the North, and all of humanity. And what did she get in return? Jon Snow, your brother, stabbed her to death. Jon Snow, a man who swore himself to her cause, murdered her. Westeros calls her the Mad Queen, and no songs are sung about what she did to save us all."  
  
Arya shook her head, and then gave a heavy sigh. "All zealots, true believers that they are, can do great things, but also do mad, terrible things. That was your queen."  
  
"You didn't know her." Yara seethed. "She wanted to do what was best for Westeros.  
  
"She promised you a crown. You didn't give a fuck about what was best for the rest of Westeros. All you cared about was your Iron Islands." Arya said dismissively.  
  
"Arya! Stop. Let me… Yara, listen, wait. Jon loved Daenerys Targaryen. You think his punishment is nothing? Not only was he sent away from the family he loves, but he has to live with the guilt of what he's done for the rest of his life. That's a greater punishment than any king or council can charge him with."  
  
"Oh, I weep for him, truly I do." Yara scoffed.  
  
"Jon did what he had to do," Sansa insisted. "He had no other choice. Daenerys Targaryen would have killed anyone who didn't see things as she did. She would have burned people and places to the ground in the name of her vision. He was protecting the realm. He was also protecting us. She would have killed Arya, me. His family." Sansa squeezed her hands.  
  
Pulling away, Yara leaned back against the cushions and rolled her eyes because there it was. "Of course, he was protecting his family. Another person dead for the Starks. Jon Snow swore fealty to Daenerys Targaryen and yet the moment there was the chance that his precious Starks might be in danger, he literally stabbed her in the heart. He betrayed his queen."  
  
"You don't understand," Sansa spoke quietly as she stood to stand by her sister. "We've lost so many we've loved. Our father and mother. Robb, Rickon—"  
  
Yara rose to her feet, interrupting the litany. "Aye, you have and I'm sorry for your loss, but you still have each other and your two brothers. What of House Baratheon and Lannister and Tarly? One member remaining. Tyrell, Targaryen, Mormont? None. How many Houses have died, how many are close to death because of these wars?" She looked between the two women. "And Greyjoy, there is but one Greyjoy and you are looking at her. Don't speak to me of family loss. I _know_ of loss. As do Houses across every region of Westeros. The Starks do not have a monopoly on loss. They only seem to have a surplus of those who are sacrificed or killed in the name of Stark."  
  
Shaking her head in disgust, Yara couldn't help but take note at the blush of shame cracking through Sansa's composure and Arya's emotionless mask. A tiny kernel of her cold heart grew red hot with pleasure at the sight. She looked pointedly at Sansa Stark. "Theon Greyjoy," and enjoyed the flinch of her body, no matter how slight it was. And then turning to the smaller but much more deadly Arya Stark, she spoke the name of the woman that she had sworn an oath too and had not betrayed, "Queen Daenerys Targaryen." This Stark did not react at all but merely stared back giving nothing, not even a daggered glare.  
  
Yara shrugged. "I will take what satisfaction I can get from the feeble punishment brought down upon Jon Snow for murdering the queen he swore an oath of fealty to. Maybe he will die from some ghastly accident at the Wall." The younger Stark's breath caught. At least that got a rise from her. It was as clear as the sun shining bright through the window that the ferocious warrior wanted to voice another threat against her. Or rather a promise this time that would lead to action. Alas, the new Queen of the North laid a hand on her sister's arm and with that touch stilled any response. It was probably for the best, she decided. This chamber was one of the few in the Red Keep intact after Drogon's strike. It would be a shame to spoil it with bloodstains.  
  
Yara departed the solar with the last word, leaving the Starks behind her.  
  
  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**  
  
Leaning down, she grabbed the bottle of whiskey that was rarely far from her side these days. There was little point in keeping sober. She had no brother. No family. No queen. No kingdom. She had a king on a throne in Westeros that she had sworn fealty to out of loyalty to Theon. Yara took a swig of her drink, the hard liquor burning her throat in a manner she found mostly pleasant.  
  
She had no quarrel with Bran Stark. It was his brother, Jon Snow, that made her rage. Just the thought of him and what he had done to Daenerys made her want to fight, hit someone, do something, throw something. Rising to her feet, Yara let out a hoarse scream. She threw her half-full bottle against the wall in the same spot where Theon's toy ship lay, dousing it.  
  
She sank back down, her energy suddenly depleted, but still she thought of him, Jon Snow, Queenslayer. That name should follow him his lifetime through as Jaime Lannister was called the Kingslayer. It would be fitting, might offer more of a sentence than he had received from his brother. Feeble punishment indeed. From all she had heard, his 'punishment' consisted of living Beyond the Wall with his Wildling followers. He had met with no accident, ghastly or otherwise. There had been no justice for Daenerys.  
  
"My queen!" The double doors of the great hall that was meant to be her Throne Room opened and then shut.  
  
Yara rolled her eyes. "Harras, how many fucking times do I have to tell you? I'm not your queen. I'm no one's queen. The war is over. The Iron Islands lost. We are one of the Six Kingdoms under the rule of Bran the Brok—or is it Brave? I forget." She raised a brow and let out a bark of laughter devoid of mirth. "I don't care. King Bran, the first of his name." She raised a hand and then looked blankly at its absence of anything. "Where did my whiskey go?"  
  
And then she laughed. She laughed so hard that tears formed at the corner of her eyes. Yara pointed to Theon's wooden ship, her words coming out between snorts of laughter. "My whiskey is all over _Yara_."  
  
Harras sighed heavily. She kept pointing. "Look, see there. _Yara_ is drowning in whiskey." Yara slumped back into her chair, an ornately carved seat befitting a queen. But she was no queen. Laughter once more spilled out of her. Harras said nothing and at last she too fell silent, wiping the tears that had dampened her face. Yara looked at the loyal knight. "I suppose it isn't that funny. Not when the woman you once swore your allegiance to as queen is a drunken pathetic shell of herself."  
  
Harras faced her. He was a tall man, intelligent, and she knew that had the threat of the Night King not changed everything, would have helped remove Euron Greyjoy once and for all. Dark of hair and eye, Harras Harlaw, was one of the first to pledge himself to Yara as Queen of the Iron Islands. He had never once wavered in his support. He did not do so now.  
  
"I still swear my allegiance. You are my queen. Your father was a cold, merciless man who cared not for the Ironborn but only for his revenge and the title of king. Your uncle was cruel and mad, only wanting power and the title. Your brother was weak—"  
  
Yara's eyes flashed in anger and Harras paused but he did not flinch.  
  
"I do not mean to offend. I only speak the truth. Theon Greyjoy was not Ironborn, not once your father gave him to Ned Stark. 'Twasn't his fault that he wasn't raised on Pyke." His gaze burned into hers. "As were you. You grew up on Pyke, my queen. You've lived among us. You were raised as your father's heir. Fought with your men, led them into battle. You captained your own ship, raided pirates, lived and breathed the salt and smoke and air of the Iron Islands. You are not just Ironborn, Yara Greyjoy. You _are_ the Iron Islands."  
  
Sitting up straight in the chair carved for a queen, Yara felt the iron coursing through her blood and she felt all the stronger for it. Harras was right. Let Jon Snow wallow Beyond the Wall, that was nothing to her. Let Sansa Stark play queen in the North. It was its own kingdom and had naught to do with her. She was a lone wolf now anyway, and what did Theon tell her that Ned Stark always used to say, "the lone wolf dies but the pack survives." The Queen of the North was alone. Her sister was off sailing West, likely to die, and Bran Stark… Well, Bran Stark was the king of Westeros.  
  
That did make him her king. She looked to her loyal knight. "Harras, I swore an oath of fealty to Bran Stark."  
  
"Yes, my queen." Yara was on the verge of correcting him again but decided against it. She liked the sound. "But…"  
  
"But?" She prompted.  
  
"It was barely a moon after the death of your brother. It was a highly informal situation. The official ceremony has not yet been held. That ceremony with banns and banners and flags has not been scheduled yet what with the ongoing reconstruction of King's Landing."  
  
"By which you mean…" Yara led, her fingers dancing on the armrest of her throne, a grin spreading wide across her face. Yes, she was going to call it what it rightfully was.  
  
"I have heard chatter." Harras calmly walked over and picked up the broken whiskey bottle, pausing near the door for a moment before disposing of the shards in a bin. "It went quiet after the death of Prince Quentyn of Dorne, but there has been renewed murmurings that may be of interest to those who may prefer there be less than six kingdoms."  
  
Yara closed her eyes, thinking, a smile still dancing upon her lips. "And where is this interest coming from, Ser Harras?"  
  
"Dorne, naturally."  
  
She heard movement but didn't open her eyes. "Even with the prince's death?" She let out a slight sound in want of explanation. "An accident or foul play?"  
  
"That is a matter of opinion, Your Grace. Some believe intentional, others believe purely happenstance."  
  
Opening her eyes, Yara narrowed them. "What do you think?"  
  
Harras straightened up, the wooden _Yara_ in hand and turned to face her. "I believe we may never know for sure, but I'm inclined to think that it was happenstance. At this stage in the game there would be no need to murder the man." Walking over to her, he held out Theon's toy ship. It smelled of whiskey, but the wood was dry. "As to why Dorne? His sister, Princess Arianne, has moved back to Sunspear and may be in play. I have also heard rumors that Prince Quentyn was in contact with someone from across the Narrow Sea that may be of great use to our cause."  
  
"Who?" Yara cocked her head, the ship settling in her lap.  
  
"That I don't know as of yet. But I will find out." He bowed deeply. "Your Grace." Harras exited her Throne Room silently, leaving Yara Greyjoy, Queen of the Iron Islands in spirit once more. She looked down at the wooden toy ship that Theon had named after her all those years ago but had never let her play with, let alone touch.  
  
She picked it up, turning it over, admiring the craftsmanship that still held up. It was the first time that she had looked upon _Yara_ without pain, sorrow or drink clouding her senses. It was beautiful. She could understand why Theon had felt the way he had, not wanting to share. Yara laid one hand upon the armrest of her throne, looked about her Throne Room and glanced out the window, enjoying the sight of the clouds over the sea of the Iron Islands in the distance. She understood the feeling indeed.  
  
She didn't want to share either. 

****

****

**—THE NEXT CHAPTER: THE WOMAN WHO WAS LOST—**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned in the original notes how I modified the arcs of book characters to mesh with the television series as much as possible. I did this with the character of [Harras Harlaw](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Harras_Harlaw\)). He's not a major character in the books, but he's a supporting character in this story.


	13. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 12: Gilly I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilly reflects on the heartbreak that brought her on the voyage West of Westeros. On an island stop, she connects with Gendry and gets some helpful advice.
> 
>  **Characters** : Gilly Tarly, Gendry Baratheon, Samwell Tarly, Arya Baratheon, Carpen Weilldfoot, Tavier Fyste  
>  **Relationships** : Gilly & Gendry, Gilly/Samwell (minor) Arya/Gendry
> 
> * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a new tag added because of the chapter. If you look for it, though, you will be spoiled. Just a heads-up, it could be triggering. Read the summary to give you an idea if you want to look at the additional tags or not.

** THE WOMAN WHO WAS LOST **

**THE CABIN WAS** dark and small. It reminded her of the room she shared with her sister-wives beyond the Wall. Except that she was alone. There were no sisters. No wives. No Craster. No fear. But still pain. Pain was her constant companion now. Now as it was then when she lived at Craster's Keep, but then she wasn't alone.  
  
Gilly found that she preferred being alone. And on the water rather than in the snow. Standing on the deck, at the railing looking over the beautiful waves was amazing. The spray of sea mist falling over her, she could smell and taste the salt in the air. The sun was hot on her face. Who knew that the sun could be so hot? It hadn't been like that even in Oldtown, the warmest place she had ever been. The first time that Gilly had been aboveboard and experienced all that wonder, and had almost felt peace, she had wanted to run back to her cabin, find pen and quill and write Sam.  
  
Then she had remembered. Gilly had hated herself in that moment. That she could ever forget. What kind of person was she? What kind of mother?  
  
Rising to her feet, she looked out the porthole, sorrow making her soul ache. It had been two moons since Sam had sent Little Sam away to be fostered with Lord Hastwyck of the Reach. Sam had grown up with him and said he was one of the few lords who treated him well and that he would do right by their boy. Before the fall of House Tyrell and so many others during the war, House Hastwyck hadn't been one of great consequence, but since then it had grown in stature, Little Sam being there would be good for him, Sam insisted. Gilly didn't care. No matter how she had begged and pleaded, argued and cried, fought and withheld words and affection, her touch and her body, anything and everything she could think of. Still, Sam stood his ground.  
  
He was determined that his son be taught how to be a proper lord. Sam told her that King's Landing, especially in its current state, was no place for the heir of Thornhill, and neither he nor his mother had the tools or know-how to prepare Little Sam for his role to run a holdfast and take care of its lands and people. Lord Hastwyck could do that. It meant nothing to Sam that she didn't agree.  
  
  
**—TWO MOONS BEFORE—**  
  
Gilly had no one to talk to. She realized that once Little Sam was sent away. A little boy he may have been, but he was someone to share her thoughts with at least and now he was gone. Sam was so busy with Small Council duties and truth be told she didn’t want to speak with him right now. Ser Davos was the only other person in the capital she felt comfortable with, but likewise he was much too busy. So she took to reading Sam's book on the events of all that happened. _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , he had called it. A fancy name and it didn't really make sense. She had told him so since it wasn't a song, it was a book. She had told him so. Had said he should call it that, _A Book of Ice and Fire_. He didn't like that suggestion.  
  
Gilly sighed. Well, she didn't like him very much right now. Absent-mindedly she rubbed her belly and smiled. Little Jon kicked at her hand. They would visit Jon Snow sometime after the baby was born so that he could meet his nephew. That is what Sam said. He also said they could stop at House Hastwyck and see Little Sam. What Sam didn't know is that Gilly planned on taking her son with them when they left so that she would have her whole family with her. She grinned as the baby gave a sharp kick at that thought. "You like that idea, do you, Little Jon?" She gave a quick pat and sighed. "I do too."  
  
When she wasn't reading Sam's book—it was the only one available to her as the Red Keep's library had been destroyed in the dragon's attack much to the dismay of both her and Sam—she was familiarizing herself with the parts of the Red Keep that she could safely visit. One particular spot she liked was the parapet overlooking the training yard. There she would watch the newly named Lady Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Brienne of Tarth, train with her guards. It was always exciting to see the giant female warrior ferociously battle and take down man after man and leave them humiliated on the ground. Even better was when Jon's sister, the Bringer of the Dawn, would come to train with Ser Brienne. That was always the most fun. She was such a small woman, but unlike the men, she could hold her own with the Lady Commander.  
  
Walking in the halls and corridors, she would hear the highborn talk. At first, Gilly had done her best to ignore them as they certainly ignored her, but when she heard Jon's name, she listened. There were some who believed that it was he who had killed the Night King and not his sister after all. Gilly wondered fleetingly if maybe that was true. As great a fighter as Jon’s sister was, she was a tiny thing, still if Jon had done it, he would have said so. Gilly dismissed such talk. Just as she dismissed the grumblings over the light punishment that he had received for killing Daenerys Targaryen, and the idea that were he anyone but the king's brother he would have been executed. Gilly wanted to say something but held her tongue because she knew it would do no good, merely draw attention to herself. She did learn something valuable that day, though. Because she was nothing to them, they did not see her and so they spoke freely even when she was around.  
  
From that moment on, things they said about Jon, about his family, including the new Queen of the North, and his brother, their new king, as well as his Small Council, Gilly wrote down and she told Sam each night when she learned something new. He was appreciative, but not enough to bring Little Sam home.  
  
  
**IT HAD BEEN** little over a moon since her son had left when she finally received a letter from him. It was short, poorly written befitting his young age, but the sentiment was clear. He missed her and Sam. He wanted to come home. Now. She rushed to find Sam and was stopped by guards. He was in one of his bloody Small Council meetings. She didn't care. Raising her voice, she called out his name. And again. Gilly could hear loud voices, confusion coming from behind the closed doors. She didn't care; she just wanted Sam to come to her. To reassure her that he would bring their son home. Finally.  
  
The doors opened. "Gilly?" His round face appeared before her, eyes wide and concerned. "What is it? Is it the baby?"  
  
"What?" Her hand went to her belly immediately, and she shook her head. "No, Little Jon is fine."  
  
He breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. That's good. So, what then? I'm in a meeting. Can't this wait?" His tone was pleading as he looked over his shoulder and when he looked back at her, the appeasement he'd shown to the others remained. Anger flooded her.  
  
"No, it can't. I need to talk to you now, Sam." She held up the missive. "This is from Little Sam. He's not fine. He wants to come home."  
  
Sam sighed again, this time with frustration. "Gilly, I can't do this now. I'm in a meet—"  
  
"I don't care, Sam. Your son needs you. _I_ need you. You made this mess and you're going to clean it up. I'm going to our chambers and you better join me. Now." She turned and walked away, knowing that if he didn't follow her shortly, life as Samwell Tarly knew it would change.  
  
He didn't come to their chamber for hours. By the time he walked in, she was angrier than she had ever been, pacing back and forth.  
  
"It's like they can't see reason. I explain one thing to them and just when I think they understand it, Bronn makes one of his jokes and Lord Tyrion goes off and joins in. Then Ellaria Sand can't resist telling Lord Tyrion how terrible he is. Davos tries to make sense of them all, and we've lost where we were. It's a mess." One by one, his chains and robes came off until he was sitting in his underclothes and resting in his favorite chair. He smiled at her. "Stop pacing back and forth like that. It can't be good for the baby. Lay down, tell me about your day, Gilly."  
  
She looked at him, wide-eyed, rage filling her. He forgot. When he first began speaking, going on and on about his stupid council meeting she had been annoyed, frustrated that he hadn't even bothered to apologize for not coming directly to her, and for talking about something so unimportant when they had Little Sam to discuss, but now she understood. He hadn't said he was sorry and was talking about such trivialities because he didn't remember that she had come to him with a matter of import. "Sam…" She said his name, her fury underlying the word.  
  
His eyes wide, his mouth fell open and realization dawned. He gasped. Yes, he suddenly recalled how her day went. "Gilly! Oh, Gilly. I'm sorry. Little Sam! Something about Little Sam, you got a letter!" He jumped to his feet. "Tell me! He misses us. He’s not fine, you said, but he can’t be hurt, you would have said. I know that much." He walked to her and put his hands on her shoulders. "I'm not that awful. Tell me, Gilly. I'm sorry."  
  
Sighing, she allowed herself to relax under his care, as his fingers massaged the tenseness she felt. "I did get a letter. It was from his hand." She looked up at her husband. "Sam, he's miserable. Yes, he misses us, and he wants to come home, well, home being us. He wants to be with you and me." She smiled, relieved that she had said the words, relayed the message and that Sam would finally see reason and her little boy would be with her soon. Happiness spread through her. Little Jon gave a strong, joyful kick in response.  
  
Sam pulled her into his arms and kissed the crown of her head. "Gilly, of course he's sad and wants to come home. He misses his mother and father. Any boy would. It’s barely been any time at all. But Lord Hastwyck has a couple of grandsons around Little Sam's age and given a bit more time, he will grow to enjoy himself there." He pulled away and held her face in his hands, giving her a kiss.  
  
"As I said once you've had the baby and rested a few months, we'll visit Jon up North, and on the way back, we'll stop at House Hastwyck and see Little Sam so he can meet his baby brother. By that time, you'll see, he won't want to leave he'll be having so much fun." He dropped another quick kiss on her lips and then moved away not even looking into her eyes. Yawning, he moved away and called over his shoulder. "I'm going to call for a bath. Do you want one?"  
  
"No."  
  
Something died inside of her in that moment. Gilly didn't know what it was until a week later.  
  
  
**SAM WOKE HER** with an excited cry. "Gilly, the bed is wet. I think your water broke. The baby is coming!" Gilly sat up with a start. An agonizing pain shooting through her. She cried out.  
  
"Gilly! Hold on, my love. I'm going to get the midwife." She could hear Sam through the veil of her pain. It hurt so much, so much more than when she had given birth to Little Sam.  
  
She pressed one hand on the bed, her fingers squeezing the downy comforter, the other falling to her swollen belly, desperate to reassure her son. "Little Jon, fear not, baby. I'll have you in my arms soon." He didn't kick in response, instead another piercing slice of pain had her back arching her near off the bed. And then another. And another.  
  
The door opened. Light flooded the room. She saw Sam rush to her side, joined by the midwife. Sam lifted her in his arms as milk of the poppy was administered to her. She thought she saw tears streaming down his face. As waves of pain washed over her and the drug flowed through her, Gilly heard snatches of conversations.  
  
"Blood…"  
  
"You… save."  
  
"Too late."  
  
"Already…"  
  
"…she…still alive."  
  
"So much blood… how…"  
  
"…my son… can… what are…"  
  
"Gilly… you have…I DON'T CARE!"  
  
"… have to… save… save… her! SAVE HER!"  
  
"my son… my son."  
  
"…I'm sorry."  
  
  
**THE SUN WAS** shining through the windows flooding her chamber when she awoke. She saw, felt nothing but darkness. She had no son. Little Sam was far away, lost to her. Little Jon was dead, buried in a grave while she lay recovering from the labor. He had died while inside her womb. She had delivered a dead child. She remembered enough from what she had heard to know the truth of it. But even if she hadn't, she had already known; Gilly had just not admitted it to herself. What mother could?  
  
The door opened. She didn't turn her head to see who it was but imagined that it was her husband. The taste of disgust filled her mouth.  
  
"Gilly." He had cried when her life was saved. She remembered that too. He had begged for her life to be saved. She didn't care. "Gilly?"  
  
She felt the bed dip and curved her hand around her belly, her shoulder turning away from him. She would not look at him. He did not deserve her gaze.  
  
"Gilly, I'm sorry that we had to bury Little Jon without you. We couldn't wait any longer. Once you're able to get up and move about, I'll take you to him. It was a beautiful service." She could hear the sting of tears in his voice. She didn't care. She did not care. "Even the king was there. He wanted to honor his brother's namesake. I sent a letter to Jon, so that he knows." He let out a shaky laugh. "He knows something now. Sorry, he used to say that he knew nothing. I don't know why." A choked sob escaped him. "Gilly, look at me. Please."  
  
She thought about it, but the idea of seeing his face, his sorrow was too much for her. She remained still. He sighed heavily behind her.  
  
"It's not your fault. Gilly, it is not your fault. The Gods, they're just so bloody cruel sometimes." Another choked sob escaped him. "We know that better than anyone, I think, sometimes."  
  
_The Gods_ , she thought. She did blame the Gods, but it wasn't just them. "I—" she began, but her mouth was dry, so she swallowed and then tried again. "I don't blame myself, Sam. I blame you." The bed had been shifting under his weight, but now it went perfectly still. "I blame you because you took Little Sam away from me and so the Gods took Little Jon away from both of us."  
  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**  
  
Two moons past, Gilly could see that it wasn't the Gods that were cruel. It was she to her husband with her words. That didn't mean that she was sorry that she had left with Ser Davos. She was just sorry that she had left things with Sam as she had.  
  
He had left her and she him in spirit after she had blamed him for the death of their child. They still shared a chamber, but Gilly was gone before he awoke each morning, and she was asleep before he came to bed. He didn't seek her out and she didn't try to mend things with him. Had he brought Little Sam home to her she would have made an attempt, but he did not, so she did not.  
  
And so they went on until Gilly was close to going out of her mind with sorrow and boredom. She spoke to no one; she didn't belong in King's Landing, standing out among the nobles and Southerners and she no longer had the intrigue of listening in on and reporting their gossip and secrets because she couldn't find it in herself to care. Gilly hated every moment of her life as she mourned her baby, and her son who was off learning to be a lord who would one day just look down on her like all the rest.  
  
She had needed to leave King's Landing. When she heard Sam talking with Lord Tyrion about Ser Davos joining Jon's sister West of Westeros, she didn't think. She just raced back to their chamber and packed a small bag. A few clothes, necessaries, some quills, ink and paper, and a dagger. She had reached Ser Davos just in time and thank the Gods, he had listened to her plea. Here she was now, on an adventure of her own. Not much of one, admittedly. All she did was stay in her cabin and spend a few minutes on deck each day, but still it was an adventure for her and her very own.  
  
She would return to Westeros one day, Gods' willing and face Sam. In the meantime…  
  
There was a knock on her door. Gilly turned from the porthole, surprised. It was the first time that someone had visited her since she and Ser Davos had arrived aboard the _Nymeria_. "Who is it?" She cried out nervously, hoping that it was Ser Davos. Him, she knew.  
  
"Captain Fyste, milady. Captain Tavier Fyste. We met when you came aboard, and on the deck when you were enjoying the salty air." Gilly smiled, remembering the old sea captain. He was a tall man, with salt and pepper hair, a kind face, lined by his travels, Sam would say.  
  
"Yes, Captain Fyste," she called out as she opened her door. "How can I help you?" She smiled.  
  
He doffed his hat when he saw her before replacing it back on his head. "I just wanted to let you know that we sighted land, a small island, and thought we might find some fresh supplies, fruit, vegetables, wood perhaps, materials for Carpen. Some of us were going ashore to check it out. Would you like to join us? Arya, Gendry and Davos are."  
  
Gilly hesitated. Looking back into her small, dark cabin to which she had become quite accustomed, she almost said no. She turned back to the captain. He was smiling and looked so kind. Ser Davos had taken her with him when he didn't have to. Jon Snow's sister and her husband had let her on their ship, given her this cabin of her own. This was supposed to be an adventure, a way to take her mind off her sorrows instead of wallowing in her pain. She took a deep breath. "Yes. Yes, I will join you."  
  
  
**IT WASN’T A** small island. It was tiny, smaller than tiny. The Red Keep itself might be able to fit on the land. Still, it was beautiful. Lush, green and uninhabited, overflowing with many varieties of fruit and vegetation. The crew and passengers would eat well for some time to come.  
  
"So now, milady—"  
  
"You don't have to call me that, Mr. Weildfoot. I'm not a lady. Just Gilly." She explained to the first mate, Carpen Weildfoot, just as she had to Captain Fyste.  
  
Carpen laughed. "Ah, so many ladies who are not ladies. I do love my Northern brethren. And you, Gilly, must call me Carpen. So," he leaned closer conspiratorially. "How long have you known the great Arya Stark Baratheon?"  
  
She looked a few feet ahead before them where the "great" Arya Stark Baratheon could clearly hear Carpen. She gestured to the woman. Carpen shrugged. "I keep no secrets from the Bringer of the Dawn."  
  
"Carpen…" Arya called back warningly.  
  
"Yes, my princess?" He asked immediately, a winning smile on his shockingly unlined face. He looked quite young for a first mate.  
  
"Do shut the fuck up."  
  
"Yes, my princess." He grinned and turned back to Gilly. "So Regen," he pointed to a stocky man with brown, shaggy hair walking alongside Captain Fyste, "he is our expert on plants. He will tell us what is good or bad. Poisonous or not. What will kill us, or make us strong, happy, healthy. What tastes delicious and will make good ale!" He looked ahead. "Right, Regen?!"  
  
"Aye, Carpen!"  
  
He winked at Gilly. "That's why we like him so much."  
  
Smiling, Gilly looked at the group surrounding them. Now she knew everyone. It was just Carpen, Captain Fyste, Regen, Ser Davos, Jon's sister, Arya, and her husband, Gendry. She looked ahead at the last two. She really didn't know either of them at all, having never spoken to them, not even when boarding the ship. Ser Davos had spoken for her. She probably should do so at some point.  
  
Suddenly, a dagger came flying out of nowhere right between her and Carpen. Gilly screamed. Carpen yelped and jumped nearly three feet in the air while Davos, Tavier and Regen shouted and cursed. Only the Baratheons didn't react. Looking to the direction of the weapon, Gilly saw that right behind her and Carpen was a giant spider, maybe two inches in diameter, struck to a tree that they had just passed. Looking up, she saw gossamer strands of its web.  
  
"It was about to land on your head. Don't know if it was poisonous, but with the size of that thing, better safe than sorry," Arya remarked as she slipped by them and retrieved her dagger, carefully wiping it clean on the side of a nearby plant. She looked at everyone. "Come on, let's go. We don't have all day."  
  
Gilly turned to take in everyone else's reaction wondering if they were as shocked as she. Carpen was gazing at Arya with complete awe. Regen and Captain Fyste's expression both held a mixture of that same awe, but also disbelief, shock and a bit of fear. Ser Davos, again, looked in awe, but also acceptance. Her husband, on the other hand, he looked amused. In fact, when he met Gilly's gaze, he laughed.  
  
Gilly let out a breath of confusion. Maybe she would talk to the Baratheons later.  
  
Or not. Carpen darted up ahead to join Regen and they headed deeper into the forest, while Arya got into a conversation with Captain Fyste and Ser Davos. As Gilly found herself alone with nothing to do, suddenly Lord Gendry Baratheon was beside her.  
  
"Hullo, I'm Gendry." He held out his hand. But he was holding it wrong. It was sideways as if to shake, not to hold for her to bow. This was a good thing, though, since she was terrible at executing a bow. So she did what he was clearly expecting. She shook his hand. He grinned.  
  
"Gilly. Tarly. I'm Gilly Tarly. You're Arya Stark's husband. I mean, Arya Baratheon's husband." She felt stupid then. She always thought of Arya Baratheon as Arya Stark because she always thought of her as Jon Snow's sister and Jon Snow's sister was Arya Stark.  
  
He laughed. "Yes. And don't worry. Everyone thinks of her as Arya Stark. Honestly, I do too." He smiled, and looked over at her, his gaze softening with love. "So does she." He turned back to Gilly. "Half the time you ask her name, she'll still say Arya Stark." Shrugging, he smiled again, clearly not caring.  
  
Gilly found that quite odd, and quite un-lord-like. She sighed. "Well, I suppose when you've known that you're always going to be with one another…"  
  
Raising an eyebrow, Gendry reached out and picked a golden flower, bringing it to his nose, he sniffed and then twirled it between his fingers. "Go on then."  
  
"With an arranged marriage, I mean. The two of you grew up always knowing you would wed. The House of Stark and the House of Baratheon finally bringing the two Houses together when your father and her aunt's wedding didn't happen all those years ago. But it worked out for you two. When Sam first told me about arranged marriages, I thought they were mad, but the two of you are proof that they can work. You obviously love each other." Gilly smiled, expecting a smile from him in return. It didn't happen.  
  
Gendry laughed. He stopped, started to speak, but then began to laugh again, this time harder. And Gilly couldn't help but feel stupid. She looked away. She hated feeling stupid because she was not. She was ignorant of some things, but that didn't make her stupid.  
  
"Hey, I'm sorry," He called out, his laughter subsiding. "But… you're not joking? You really don't know?" Gendry sent another look Arya's way. "Oh, she'll have a laugh about this."  
  
Shaking her head, Gilly folded her arms across her chest. "What's so funny?" She demanded. "Tell me."  
  
"I'm not a lord, not really. And Arya, well, she is, but she's never acted like a lady a day in her life. That's why most of the crew just call her Arya. She hates being called by her title." He had a bit of a chuckle. "And she has so bloody many of them now. Drives her mad." He ran a hair through his short, black hair. "Gilly, me and Arya, we definitely did not have an arranged marriage. I had to beg her, literally had to beg her to marry me. She would have been fine sailing the seas unwed the two of us. I was the one who wanted her as my wife because if we ever have any babes, I don't want them to be bastards like me."  
  
"Like you? But you're a lord." Gilly's arms dropped to her side, confusion making her head start to hurt.  
  
"Aye, now I am with a proper name and all. But that's not how I was born or lived most of my life. I'm King Robert's bastard. Didn't find that out until after I met Arya. We met when we were kids both traveling with the Night's Watch on our way to the Wall. Well, I thought I was on my way to the Wall. She was on her way to Winterfell. We both were, but we didn't know that at the time. It didn't matter because we were captured by the Lannisters, imprisoned, tortured a bit, escaped, captured by the Brotherhood."  
  
"Oh, that's terrible." Gilly's hand went to her mouth, shook anew at all the horror that the many wars had brought upon the people of Westeros, nobles and commoners alike.  
  
He shook his head. "That's not all. I was sold to a witch, almost burned alive by my uncle, rescued by Davos and returned to King's Landing before joining Jon Snow. Arya escaped the Brotherhood, was kidnapped by the Hound, left him to die, traveled across the Narrow Sea, trained a bit and then returned to Winterfell, where we found each other again, and fought the undead. She killed the Night King and saved all of humanity. It was then that Daenerys Targaryen legitimized me as Lord Baratheon, gave me Storm's End, and made me Warden of the South. But in order to keep it, I'd lose Arya because that wasn't really her to be Lady of all of that."  
  
"Oh." His words struck a chord of memory. The grand hall in Winterfell. The Dragon Queen had made King Robert's bastard a lord and Ser Davos had looked as proud as she had ever seen him. This was that lowborn made high in the blink of an eye.  
  
Turning around again, he looked to his wife, love shining in his eyes. As if feeling his gaze, Arya glanced up and grinned when he held up the flower still in his hand. He laughed when she nodded and lightly touched the sword at her side. Facing Gilly again, he continued.  
  
"It wasn't me either to be truthful. I knew nothing of being a lord, running a castle and taking care of all the people that I'd be responsible for. So I gave it all up. But King Bran, being her brother and all, made sure I keep the title. Doesn't really matter, though, I'm as much a lord as Arya is a lady. In name only. And that suits the both of us fine."  
  
Gilly smiled widely, feeling that maybe she had finally found someone who could understand her a little bit. "Can I ask you something?"  
  
"Of course. You can ask me anything," he replied easily.  
  
"When you were in King's Landing, did you ever feel like…" she trailed off, uncomfortable because he might have been born and raised a bastard, but he was a lord now. He might say that he wasn't like a lord, but he still was. He was Lord Gendry Baratheon, and he was married to a lady who was born so and furthermore was a princess two times over.  
  
He interrupted her thoughts. "Like all of them lords and ladies were looking down at me like I was the shit, pardon me, they do their best to avoid stepping in?" He raised his brows. "Like that?"  
  
Gilly heaved a sigh of relief, feeling a weight come off her that she hadn't even realized that she had been carrying. To know that someone else felt the same way and understood it so completely. Gods knew that Sam tried, but he could never quite comprehend what she was telling him when she tried to convey it. But what Gendry had just said, that was it exactly.  
  
"Yes. Yes! Exactly like that." She breathed out the words in excitement, so happy that her thoughts were out there so clearly. Finally.  
  
"All the bloody time. Doesn't matter that I have a title and belong to a fancy house now. I'm still a bastard from Flea Bottom to most of them. I always will be. But my children won't." He reached out and gave her a reassuring pat. "Our children won't."  
  
_That's why Sam sent Little Sam away._ Gilly realized. Without thought, a finger crept up and began twisting a strand of her dark brown hair. The sense of it didn't take the pain away, but it made her anger at Sam lessen. Instead she directed it now at those awful lords and ladies who looked down at her. "How do you deal with it?"  
  
Gendry shrugged. "None of that lot matter. I love Arya. She loves me. She matters. So," he grinned and captured her gaze, his bright blue eyes shining. "Fuck it."  
  
Frowning, she found herself a bit disappointed in that answer. "That's it then?"  
  
He nodded. "Fuck it." With a shrug, Gendry glanced over to Arya with a flash of a smile before returning his attention to Gilly. "Yeah. You have Sam Tarly and your little boy. I have Arya. That is what matters. That's our family."  
  
Sending her one last reassuring smile, he strode to where his family, his Arya, stood. Gilly thought of hers, and of the last time that she and Sam had shared a moment of true happiness. Funny that it had involved Arya and Gendry Baratheon.  
  
  
**—TWO MOONS BEFORE—**  
  
The bedchamber had finally warmed up enough to keep her feet from freezing. Since her belly had gotten so big, she couldn't keep them hot enough. Now, she lay curled up on the bed she and Sam shared, nice and cozy, ready for a good night's sleep.  
  
The door opened and Sam began speaking even before it had closed. "Gilly, I know you're mad at me because I sent Little Sam to be fostered, but I've only done what I truly think is best for him and I believe you'll see that someday. And I know that when Little Jon is born," Sam reached the bed and sat down, disturbing her perfect position. He leaned over and rubbed her stomach, "you'll warm up to me again. Because I love you and you love me." Gilly couldn't help the smile that flitted across her face.  
  
"Look at you, Gilly, you're almost as big as me!"  
  
She giggled. "Sam, stop!" Now the smile was stuck there. She rolled over to face him; he looked happy too. Gilly decided that sleep could wait. "What did you want—and don't give me that look, Samwell Tarly, I know you well enough to know that you want something."  
  
His eyes wide with glee, he hopped up from the bed and moved to his desk. "I do!" he exclaimed with excitement over his shoulder. Facing her, he was holding his mammoth recording of the events of all that happened over the last eight summers and winters. Sam had begun working on it in secret at Castle Black after King Robert died as he did, sensing with all of the politics at play around him that something was afoot. At least that is what he had told her when he proudly showed her the first pages.  
  
"Sam, I've already seen this. I've read parts of it. And I know that you've shown it to the Small Council. Your book of ice and fire."  
  
" _ **Song** of Ice and Fire_", he stressed. And then rolling his eyes in embarrassment, Sam moved back to the bed and sat down, laying the tome between them. "I know, but none of them will ever read it. Besides there is one section that I don't think you've read, and I want to share it with you now."  
  
"Why?"  
  
He reached out and ran a gentle hand along the side of her cheek. "Because I know you haven't been very happy, and I also know that you like the romantic stories and songs." He smiled hopefully.  
  
"I do." She pulled herself up, leaning on her elbows and smiled back at him. "Sam, did you write a romantic story?"  
  
He blushed. "No, not exactly, but there's a happy ending and it's kind of a romantic story in that it's a story where the end is about a romance. And people you know are in it!"  
  
"Hmm," she murmured, and fell back down on the soft bed. "Alright then, read to me your romantic story, Sam."  
  
Beaming, he cleared his throat as he flipped towards the end of his book. Gilly searched for a comfortable spot and closed her eyes just as Sam began to speak.  
  
"And so this tale ends full circle. A Stark bound to a Baratheon, but this time neither the Gods, Old nor New, and no one from the House of the Dragon, interfered. The Lady from House Stark loved the Lord from House Baratheon and before the Heart Tree in the Capital of the new Six Kingdoms, the Houses of Stark and Baratheon were joined at last.  
  
"The wedding of Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, Princess of the North and the Six Kingdoms of Westeros, Bringer of the Dawn, Slayer of the Night King, and Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Warden of the South was a simple affair.  
  
"It was attended by only Brandon Stark, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, the Three-Eyed Raven, Former Lord of Winterfell, Queen Sansa Stark of the North, Jon Snow, Former King of the North, 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Lord Davos Seaworth, Master of Ships, Former Hand of the King of Westeros and King of the North, and yours truly, Grandmaester Samwell Tarly, Lord of Hornhill, who had the honor of joining the Houses Stark and Baratheon at last.  
  
"May their union be long and fruitful."  
  
Gilly smiled. "That was beautiful." She yawned. "A lot of titles. But still, beautiful. And you're right, Sam, that was a romantic ending."  
  
  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**  
  
Looking at Arya and Gendry, Gilly thought back on that night. She had been happy, if not as happy as the Lord and Lady Baratheon were then and still were. Arya was staring at Gendry who was deep in conversation with Ser Davos and Captain Fyste. She wasn't smiling, but there was a softness, an almost aching sweetness on her face as she looked at her husband. She now held the flower that Gendry had plucked earlier and would absently brush the golden petals along her cheek and then she would smile.  
  
As Gilly watched them, Gendry reached out and loped an arm around his wife's waist and pulled her to him. The niceties and courtesies that she had witnessed between the nobility at court were not something that the Baratheons adhered to. They were in love and didn't care who knew. At least Gendry didn't. Arya wasn't as open about it as her husband, but anyone watching the two interact could see how she felt for him.  
  
Gilly wiped a sudden tear from her cheek. There had never been a doubt about how she felt for Sam either. And she had never cared for the rules when it came to showing her affection for him; like Arya Stark, no Baratheon, Sam had never minded. Gilly took a deep breath. She had found her romantic ending once upon a time.  
  
"Fuck it," she whispered vehemently under her breath. It wasn't over. Just because she was lost right now didn't mean that once she was found she wouldn't, couldn't go home. And once she did… Once she did, she would embrace that romantic ending again and again.

**—THE NEXT CHAPTER: THE PAWN THAT ONCE WAS—**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who **LOVED** Chris Miles (the role that Joe Dempsie played on _Skins_ ) and really liked Hannah Murray's Cassie on that same show and loved their (completely) platonic relationship, I was very bummed that we didn't get even one single, itty-bitty scene between Gilly and Gendry on _Game of Thrones_ So, this is me not only (a) rectifying that, but also (b) going well beyond that and setting up a full-blown (completely platonic) relationship between them, and (c) throwing in Chris' "fuck it" catchphrase.
> 
>  **BTW:** If you have not watched _Skins_ , you are missing out on one of the greatest characters on television ever. CHRIS MILES FTW!


	14. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 13: Sylva I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylva and Arianne return to Sunspear and meet the House Maester. Sylva reflects on past events that helped shaped who she is today and her potential future plans. 
> 
> **Characters** : Sylva Santagar, Arianne Martell, Andrey Dalt, Maester Calleote (minor) Garin, Arys Oakheart, Areo Hotah, Myrcella Baratheon  
>  **Relationships** : Arianne & Sylva, Sylva/Andrey (minor) Arianne/Arys
> 
> * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the title while editing. If you remembered a different title previewed at the end of the last chapter, you're not wrong.

** THE PAWN THAT ONCE WAS **

**SUNSPEAR WAS DIFFERENT** than she remembered. Sylva herself had been a different person then. It had been hot, no sign of a crisp winter chill in the air. Summer heat held sway over Dorne more than any other city in the Reach, in all of Westeros even. And back then she had been Sylva Santagar, lady of Spotswood, always cheerful, ready with a jape even in the midst of a royal plot. Life had been nothing but all things good and kind to her. Spotted Sylva knew nothing of pain, of hate and of the evil that men can and would do. Nor of the darkness that could and would bloom and grow in a woman's heart in turn.  
  
The Sunspear of those days as seen through that girl's eyes had only seen beauty in the monuments of the Spear Tower, the Tower of the Sun and the Sandship. Now as Lady Sylva Estermont of Greenstone, the Stone Lady she was called behind her back, she took note most especially that Sunspear was a walled settlement, a fortress, protected by those massive winding walls. The three of them encircled one another and in each had alleys and hidden courts where merchants and thieves alike plied their trade. All those passages where the smell of sweat and sun lingered even in the coming winter were alive with all walks of life.  
  
Except for the residents of the old Palace itself. Where the three-walled gate lined up was a road reserved just for those who ruled over Dorne. That carefree, happy girl who had helped her princess plan a coup had never been down this road before, but now older, hardened as a woman, she walked beside the same princess on that very path. A princess who might someday be queen.  
  
And if Princess Arianne failed in her quest, she was not the only one their party who had the lineage and was up to the task to rule Dorne. Drey may have betrayed them, but he had given her food for thought.  
  
**—ONE YEAR BEFORE—**  
  
The excitable boy had grown up, Sylva thought with a smile. She would have to tell the princess that she had lie with Drey after all these years, succeeding where the princess had failed. Their old friend stretched out on her dead husband's bed, naked as his birth day, a grin on his face.  
  
"What are you looking at, Spotted Sylva?" He threw a grape at her.  
  
Scowling, she rose and put on a robe, suddenly conscious of the freckles dotting her fair skin. Grabbing his clothes, she threw them at him. "Get dressed."  
  
"You want me to leave?" He protested, even as he began to pull his pants on.  
  
"No, I just want you to get dressed." Sitting back down, she picked at the purple fruit and plopped one in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Why did you really come here, Drey? I know it wasn't just to come and visit an old friend. Of the four of us, you and I were the least close. So tell me the truth."  
  
Sighing, Drey finished dressing and pushed a heavy lank of the dark hair that kept falling over his eyes. "I have a plan. It involves you. And your name."  
  
Sylva narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"  
  
"How well do you know your family history, Sylva?" Smiling, he settled back down on the bed, and laid down, turning on his side to face her.  
  
"I—I know that we came from the East, but honestly I never paid much attention to the history of it all. It was boring."  
  
Drey laughed. "Oh, Sylva, you have no idea. You are descended from kings."  
  
She threw another grape at him. "Shut it. I am not." She shook her head. "No." She cocked her head. "Wait. Yes. The Andals. I do remember something like that."  
  
He nodded. "Yes, the Andals coming to Westeros. There's a question of when it happened. It was four thousand years ago, but when they did, the Santagars were among the Andals and they established their own kingdom. It wasn't until Nymeria's War when Princess Nymeria joined forces with House Martell and the Santagars bent the knee that they lost their royalty status."  
  
Rising to her feet once more, Sylva shrugged and walked to the window, looking out at the stormy sea. She hated it here. She hated the Stormlands. She missed Dorne. "That's all very interesting, but what's the point of you telling me this?"  
  
"Westeros is in chaos. The North has a new king who's a bastard running around telling everyone that dead things are come back to life. The dead widow of Robert Baratheon unleashed wildfire on her own people, called herself queen and is fucking her own brother in King's Landing. Stannis Baratheon is dead. Tywin Lannister is dead. Doran Martell is dead. Daenerys Targaryen has three dragons but she's across the Narrow Sea, and Quentyn Martell isn't even a third of a man his father was."  
  
Sylva turned around and faced Drey. "Your point?"  
  
"Westeros is in chaos. No one is paying attention to Dorne. You are descended from royalty and the Santagars once held a kingdom there. I am clever and come from a good family myself, and recently spent time serving the former princess of Dorne. We're a good match. We marry and assert the Santagars regent claim of Dorne."  
  
"Are you mad?" She laughed. "You are absolutely mad!"  
  
"It's not as if Dorne is happy with the rule of the Martells right now or recently. You have the Santagars _and_ the Estermont power behind you now. You don't think they wouldn't support your claim? The Dalts would, and there are definitely other Houses who aren't happy with the mess that the Martells—"  
  
"Princess Arianne."  
  
Drey sighed. "The princess is locked away. She's not in charge."  
  
"You don't think that she wouldn't see this as a betrayal?" Sylva moved closer to him, looking for some sign of guilt at what he was proposing, unease, something, anything. "Drey?"  
  
"It's not as if the princess has shown the best judgement when it comes to making decisions about what's best for Dorne, now has she?"  
  
Sylva stepped back, her eyes shutting briefly, and she knew she had to ask him the question that she had been avoiding because it was so nice seeing him. It had been lovely finding that part of herself that she had lost in the years of degradation at her husband's side. The beatings, the haranguing, the suffering on a constant daily basis being gone forever had been such a blessed relief that she had simply wanted to forget what she had known in her mostly deadened heart about her old friend. But no longer.  
  
"Did you do it? Did you tell the Princess Arianne's father about our plan with Myrcella Baratheon? Was it you, Drey? Were you the traitor?" She asked him in so many ways, making it impossible for him to squirm out of answering. Sylva wanted, needed the truth.  
  
He didn't answer. The handsome smile fell away. The cocksure glint in his eyes faded. For the first time since he'd come back into her life, Drey looked wary, confused. He wasn't expecting this. He had never expected to get caught in this betrayal, that was very clear.  
  
"I received a letter from Garin. You wouldn't call our dead friend a liar, would you?"  
  
Shaking his head, he rolled his eyes and finally, he just laughed. "What does it matter now. We've all been punished, and we're fine. The girl never would have been the queen. I was protecting the princess. Yes, it was me, Sylva." He reached out and grabbed her hands and she let him, too much in shock at his words to respond, to pull away. "I wasn't just protecting Princess Arianne, but all of us. It wouldn't have done any good."  
  
Sylva looked down at their joined hands and revulsion crept over her body. She had let him touch her, pleasure her. She wanted to scream.  
  
She did.  
  
Pulling away, jerking back, she looked up at him, eyes wide, staring at him. He looked shocked. He was so ugly.  
  
"I'm not fine," she gasped the words. She pulled off her robe and threw it to the ground, baring her naked flesh to him. "When you were fucking me, did you not see the bruises still on my body from the beatings I received every day from my filthy husband." She moved closer to him, her voice rising. "My shrunken, old, sick husband who used his fingers to pinch me, his fists to beat me, his cane to hit me, what teeth he had left to bite me!" She was so close to him now that she could feel his breath on her face. "Do you not see the scars that the husband my father chose for me has left me with forever? Do you? Do you?!"  
  
Drey scrambled off the bed. "Sylva! Please…" He came around and picked up her robe, putting it on her. He tried to hold her, and for a moment she let him, but his words kept ringing in her head that they we're fine and she shoved him away. He had to know. She had to tell him.  
  
"I am not fine! And Garin, he is not fine. Drey, Garin is dead. He is dead! Drey, he was murdered for a few coins in the streets of Tyrosh. That is not fine!"  
  
"Sylva—"  
  
"Do you know who else is dead? Do you even care? That little girl, Myrcella, that sweet girl is dead. Garin is dead. Princess Arianne is locked away. I am—I am… I am this. I am… not—"  
  
She screamed. And she screamed. And something inside of her broke.  
  
Her guards came rushing in. Drey was screaming her name. She was screaming. They grabbed him. Finally, Maester Fourame came in and asked what was wrong. Sylva couldn't tell them about the plot to put Myrcella on the throne because it implicated her. She couldn't tell them about Drey's plot to put her on the throne in Dorne because why would that upset her so.  
  
Sylva looked down at her husband's bed. Her husband. Everyone here at Greenstone knew that he beat her, but he spoke kindly to her all the same. And treated all the servants well, so they believed that she cared for him as did they. Drey had killed her husband. He had poisoned him. Another betrayal, and a horrible one, killing your host.  
  
All of the cool and calm that Ser Andrey Dalt had worn from the moment he had arrived was gone. He was sweating, his eye was twitching, and his breathing was heavy. Sylva met his gaze and for the first time in her life, she felt power. And she used it.  
  
"He killed my husband. He killed your Lord. He poisoned him."  
  
She screamed. And screamed. And it felt good.  
  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**  
  
She did let Arianne know that she had royalty in her family history. It wasn't her plan. She wanted Arianne to rule in Dorne. However, that was a plan dependent upon the actions of Arianne and with those whom her brother, Prince Quentyn, had been communicating. Many things had changed in a year. Westeros was now being run by a cripple in King's Landing. The North had its own Kingdom, and yet Dorne did not. There was an unequal balance of power that needed desperately to be shifted. Whether Arianne was up to the task was the question.  
  
Arianne had always been tender-hearted, not one for violence. Sylva had been much the same way once upon a time. Since then, life had not been kind and Sylva believed in returning the favor now. How Arianne would treat her hard times remained to be seen.  
  
"Sylva?" Arianne turned to her. "It's all so different now, isn't it? Bigger, darker and yet..." The beautifully dusk-colored princess trailed off.  
  
"Smaller somehow," Sylva finished for her. Both she and Arianne were indeed much changed, but for many a year they had been like sisters and such a bond and understanding would not easily break.  
  
"Yes." Arianne smiled and reached out to grasp Sylva's hand, holding on to her firmly. "Everything has changed, but, you and I still have each other and whatever we will face in there, we will face it together, my friend." Sylva gazed at Arianne for a moment before looking ahead to the towering doors of the capital house. She knew that the princess meant the words she spoke in spirit, but they were not in truth.  
  
Arianne Martell was the Princess of Dorne, the leader of this region now while Sylva was just a lady by her side with as much or as little power as Arianne was willing to grant her. As much as Sylva loved her childhood friend, after her future and fortunes had been decided by another royal, Arianne's father, and ones more powerful than Sylva, her father and husband, she was determined to walk a different path.  
  
Sylva would no longer be a follower in the game of thrones. She had her own plans, her own moves. She had been Arianne's pawn in the past, and it had altered her life in a disastrous way. Never again.  
  
**—FOUR YEARS BEFORE—**  
  
"If a Lannister is going to sit on the Iron Throne it is going to be a Lannister that I trust to some degree." Arianne spoke to her three fellow conspirators earnestly.  
  
"Lannister?" Drey said with a smirk, and Sylva rolled her eyes. Leave it to Drey to never take anything seriously, not even a treasonous plot.  
  
"Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella may bear Robert Baratheon's name but everyone knows that they are the children of Cersei and her brother, Jaime Lannister," Princess Arianne responded tartly.  
  
Sylva paused in her handiwork, inspecting the long braid she had entwined with small orchids for the princess. "I've heard that Tommen is kind."  
  
"But he's not a girl," Garin pointed out.  
  
Sylva nodded, acknowledging that point. To confirm, she addressed the princess. "Your highness, you are determined to get a queen on the Iron Throne, are you not?"  
  
"If we can get a Lannister we trust, get revenge for the deaths of my aunt and uncle and place a woman on the throne, one who is the elder of the two after all, why not?" Arianne smiled, a radiant sparkle in her eye.  
  
Sylva shrugged. "Why not, indeed?" She smiled and patted the thick plait. "Done."  
  
  
**THE BACK ALLEYWAY** outside of Sunspear was quiet.  
  
"It's too quiet." Princess Arianne looked to Sylva; her voice was low. "Don't you think it's too quiet. I know it's late, but I would expect more…"  
  
"Noise, fights, life?" Garin interjected. Both the princess and Sylva nodded. Drey was silent and motionless.  
  
"Princess Arianne, can we not travel by day?" Myrcella's voice was quiet, muted beneath the heavy veil she wore to hide her golden curls. "When we arrive at the Water Gardens, I won't even be able to see anything?"  
  
Princess Arianne smiled at the child and moved her horse closer so she could speak softly to reassure her. Sylva and Garin exchanged glances. It had been decided to not tell the young princess any of their plans until they were further on their journey so as not to frighten her. For the time being, she believed that they were heading to the Water Gardens, traveling by night to avoid the heat and extra traffic on the coastal roads. The one guard they had paid handsomely to stay by Myrcella's side remained still while Arianne talked to the girl.  
  
"The heat is much greater in Dorne than you're used to and by traveling at night it will be much more comfortable for you, I promise."  
  
"Princess, it is awfully quiet, perhaps we should go back inside and—"  
  
"Ser Dalt, your princess has given you directions and we will follow her lead," Ser Arys Oakheart spoke up, his voice carrying in the dark and Sylva winced. She shared a worrying look with Garin. Drey shrugged.  
  
Arianne turned to Myrcella's guard and called him to her. "Stay here with the princess while we scout ahead. Something doesn't feel right. If you hear anything that sounds troubling," the Dornish princess looked to Sylva and let out a heavy sigh, but then straightened her shoulders and continued, turning to the guard once more, "bring Princess Myrcella back inside."  
  
The party moved forward meeting no opposition and no traffic. Sylva spent very little time in this part of Sunspear, but even she was aware that despite the late hour there should be some activity. The alley should not be clear. Merchants should be hawking their wares and buyers should be milling about.  
  
She turned her mount around and moved beside the princess. "This isn't right. Something isn't—"  
  
"I know," Princess Arianne whispered back sharply, her beautiful face pinched and worried. "I know, but I don't want to turn back now. We've set everything up along the journey. Too much is set in motion. It's too late to turn back. Let's just see what is past this corner and then we'll send Garin back for Myrcella."  
  
Their group made a left turn and Sylva heard the breath of relief from her companion, one that echoed her own. All along the walls were figures moving about. There was life.  
  
Garin looked over his shoulder with a grin. "All is well. Nothing to wor—"  
  
"Yield, my princess!" came a booming voice. Sylva froze as did the princess next to her. Areo Hotah suddenly stood in their path. His favored weapon, the longaxe, raised high before them. In a matter of seconds, those figures that had so reassured them stood behind him and outnumbered them, their dark cloaks thrown off revealing the Martell guard uniform. "Princess, yield," the captain repeated, "or else we must slay all but you."  
  
Sylva looked to the princess who was looking behind her from where they had come. Arianne gripped her hand tightly, and she knew that they were both thinking the same thing, praying that the guard that had been paid so well had listened to her instructions and was already bringing Myrcella Baratheon back into Sunspear.  
  
"By your father's word," Hotah shouted, making it clear that all hope was lost. Prince Doran would have their lives if they did not surrender.  
  
A loud roar filled the air. Ser Arys Oakheart, the Goldcloak who had been sent with the young princess to protect her and had fallen deeply in love with Arianne Martell, charged ahead. The grip on her hand tightened to a painful degree.  
  
"No," the princess whispered. "You fool."  
  
Sylva tried to look away. She didn't want to see the man die. Garin and Drey had dropped their weapons, but Ser Arys, the gallant, foolish knight was determined to fight for the princess' dream. And he was going to die for it.  
  
"No!" Her friend finally screamed loud enough to be heard, but it was too late. The longaxe of Hotah had struck the Goldcloak through cleanly. It was a quick death. Sylva looked to her princess and tears streaked her face, but she was silent now.  
  
She remained silent as Hotah's men gathered Drey and Garin from their horses and shackled them up. She said not a word as she held out her hand to Areo Hotah and stepped from her mount. Right before she disappeared from view, the princess looked back, and she met Sylva's gaze. She finally spoke.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**  
  
That sorry wasn't enough then and it wasn't enough now. No two words ever would be, but Arianne couldn't know that. She hadn't suffered as Sylva had. The apology hadn't been worth anything, but the lesson had been invaluable. Sylva had learned that she would never be anyone's pawn again.  
  
"My Princess," a quiet voice spoke, bringing her out of her thoughts. She turned to see the timid Maester Caleotte. He entered the private solar of the royal family where they had been taken to get their bearings. Arianne had been looking through Quentyn's correspondence. She held one of the letters behind her back now as she moved to greet the man. Sylva looked around while Arianne exchanged words with him. He was as she remembered from her younger days, appearing to not have aged at all. Still round of face, meek and mild in appearance and attitude.  
  
"Let us speak of your letter, Maester Caleotte," Arianne got right to the point. Sylva was surprised. She would have expected more subtlety on her part.  
  
"Your highness?"  
  
"Let us not play games. My brother was in league with others who were in discontent with the politics of Westeros. How deep did it run? Was he murdered? Was it an accident? Who can we trust? Can I trust you?"  
  
Sylva raised a brow, carefully watching Maester Caleotte's reaction. She wasn't sure yet if she agreed with Arianne's tactics, overwhelming the man with questions and directly trying to see where his allegiance lie. She sighed. She had her back-up plan for a reason.  
  
The Maester took a deep breath and smoothed his robes before meeting Arianne's eyes. He cast a quick look in Sylva's direction, looked back to Arianne who had not wavered in her gaze. "Your highness, I am your faithful servant. You have my full trust always. As for your other questions… I do not believe that Prince Quentyn was murdered. Although some do. I believe it was an accident."  
  
Arianne nodded. Sylva narrowed her eyes and filed that thought away for further investigation.  
  
"He was discussing discontent, as you put it, with Yara Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, well, an intermediary of Lady Greyjoy, a Ser Harras Harlaw of the Iron Islands. Your brother was also in contact with an old friend of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen who may have some assistance in how things are currently being ruled in Westeros."  
  
Arianne turned to look at Sylva. Sylva took a step forward. "Maester Caleotte, we are among trusted friends here, are we not? You don't have to speak in riddles. The princess is your lady. Tell all."  
  
The Maester turned to her. "And you are…" He smiled simply.  
  
"My trusted friend," Arianne answered for her. "You can speak freely in front of Lady Estermont. Speak all, Maester. I need know that you are loyal to House Dorne. And I am House Dorne."  
  
"Ah, yes." He refolded his hands. "My princess, of course, I am at your service. Serve. Obey. Protect. Your brother, as you know, was hoping for a potential alliance with Daenerys Targaryen. That did not work out as hoped. When it did not, we received word from an old friend of Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon Connington. He had been tasked with raising the infant son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, Aegon—"  
  
"He was killed by Gregor Clegane during the Sack of King's Landing," Arianne interjected.  
  
"Yes, my princess, that is what was believed. But if you recall, the infant's face was completely smashed in, no one could recognize it and positively identify him as Aegon Targaryen. According to Connington, the child was switched with another out of concern that something might happen to the Targaryen children. Since the sister was of Dornish likeness, finding one who looked like her was not such an easy task on short notice. They were able to find a boy, though."  
  
Sylva turned away and walked to the window, watching the sunset. If this were true and Arianne could align herself with both the Iron Islands and a legitimate Targaryen, Dorne could finally get its freedom.  
  
"Thank you, Maester. That will be all."  
  
With a start, Sylva swung around, surprised that Arianne would dismiss the Maester after receiving such explosive news. She watched the man leave the room and then looked to her old friend. "Why didn't you ask him for more information? We need proof. We need to find out more about this possible Targaryen."  
  
Arianne sighed. "If it's true, this possible Targaryen would be my cousin. My aunt's child long believed dead alive after all. Still..." She leaned back against the chaise, running her hands through her long, dark curls. "If true," she laughed without humor. "And it gets out that we are looking into this, it could possibly take us down a path we aren't ready to go. My father once told me that words are like arrows, once loosed, you cannot call them back."  
  
"Arianne," Sylva protested, frustration beginning to burn in a pit in her belly.  
  
"Sylva, listen to me. If we go down this path recklessly, we could start a war."  
  
Scoffing, Sylva threw her hands up. "And what of it? More men will die. That's a bad thing?"  
  
Arianne looked at her, sadness in her eyes. "It is. Many lives will be lost, many widows left behind, many fatherless children. And you know how I feel about violence." She stood up, determination straightening her spine and Sylva shook her head. "I'm not my father, you know that. I do prefer action, but not bloodshed. Not when peace will do."  
  
She moved to Sylva and met her gaze. "The plan to put Princess Myrcella on the Iron Throne, it was a peaceful one. This is not the same."  
  
Sylva eyes grew dark, anger filling her tone. "Yes, it was a peaceful one and do you remember how it ended? Your Ser Arys dead and bloody in that alleyway. Garin sent away to Tyrosh and dead and bloody in another alleyway. Drey betraying us and living a wonderful life with your mother, only to come back into mine and killing my husband and planning on betraying you all over again. You locked away in the mountains, and me, married to a man I hated who beat me every day of my life for years."  
  
Looking down because she couldn't bear to see the pity in Arianne's eyes, Sylva stalked away and back to the window, looking into the setting sun once more. "If that's peace, give me war."

**—THE NEXT CHAPTER: THE BRIDE IN THE RAIN—**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I mentioned in the original notes how I modified the arcs of book characters to mesh with the television series as much as possible. I did this with Arianne and her band of conspirators. The end of the Myrcella conspiracy has dialogue and imagery taken liberally from the similar scene in the Arianne chapter, _The Queenmaker_ from "A Feast For Crows."


	15. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 14: Arya II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, Arya makes a big decision, while Jon stands his ground. In the present, Arya and Gendry find a way to pass the time while stuck in their cabin. 
> 
> **Characters** : Arya Stark, Gendry Baratheon, Bran Stark, Jon Snow, Sansa Stark  
>  **Relationships** : Arya/Gendry, Arya & Bran, Arya & Jon, Arya & Sansa (super-duper minor) Sansa/Tyrion, Gendry & Tyrion & Pod, Gendry & Jon
> 
> * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating of this fic? This would be one of those chapters why it has that rating.

**THE BRIDE IN THE RAIN**

**"IT'S NOT GOING** to stop just because you stare daggers at it."  
  
Turning away from the porthole, Arya glared at Gendry. "Perhaps I'll stare daggers at you instead then," she groused.  
  
He laughed. "What good would that do? I can't stop the rain any more than you glaring out that window can, now can I?" Leaning back, he raised an eyebrow and patted the bed. "Come on, join me. Have a nap, you look tired."  
  
Rolling her eyes, Arya shook her head and looked back to the blurry porthole, the streaming rain making it near impossible to see anything out of it. "I'm not tired, Gendry. I'm bored. We've been stuck in this cabin for two days now. If we could at least go above deck and help—"  
  
"You tried that, Arry, and you got in the way. I know you want to help. They know you want to help, but you're simply not seasoned enough. Neither of us are. We give 'em more work 'cause they have to worry about keeping us from going overboard."  
  
She banged her head against the wall and sighed heavily. "I know. That great passage of rocks is coming up and I was looking forward to being on deck while we navigated through it." She sighed again. "But with this rain, we'll just be stuck in the cabin." Throwing a quick glance his way Arya returned a glare out the porthole to the stormy weather. "I never thought I'd say I'd hate rain, but I'm beginning to hate rain."  
  
Jumping off the bed, Gendry came to stand behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and bent down, nuzzling her throat. Without thought, she angled her head to the side to give him better access, a breathy sigh escaping her. "Don't say that," he whispered huskily. His tongue slipped out and licked a slow, light path up the side of her neck. Reaching her ear he began to nibble slightly, and then he bit just a tad harder. Arya jumped, a moan escaping her as a shot of pleasure pooled in the pit of her stomach. Her hand moved behind her to rest on his hip. Gendry took her ear between his lips, soothing the tender flesh before making his way across her cheek to her mouth, a hand moving up to cup her face as he kissed her slowly, sweetly.  
  
He pulled away, but his hand still cupped her face, his arm still lay about her waist, his warmth still enveloped her. Arya kept her eyes closed enjoying the feel and taste and smell of him all around her.  
  
"It was raining the day we wed." Gendry's voice was low, a hint of huskiness still there.  
  
Arya nodded. "I know. I was thinking of that too." She finally opened her eyes and gazed up at him. "That's why I said I didn't want to say I hated the rain. But—"  
  
"No buts—"  
  
"Three days, Gendry. It's been three day—"  
  
"Two. It's been two days." She shook her head and put a finger on his mouth to shush him.  
  
"No, we've been stuck in this cabin for two days. It's been raining for three days." She pulled away slightly and turned to lean against the table but not enough to break her hold on him or allow his hold on her to loosen much.  
  
"Fair enough. But it's not that bad, Arry. We haven't seen a drop of rain since our wedding. It's been all sunny skies since then."  
  
She raised a brow. "And is that a good or a bad thing, do you think?"  
  
Gendry furrowed his brow the way he did when he was thinking really hard as if it hurt to be doing so. She smiled. "If it has to mean something, don't know why it does…" He trailed off and Arya glared at him.  
  
"Because I'm bored, and it won't stop fucking raining and I want it to mean something."  
  
He nodded and grinned. "Right then. Good, it must be good." Leaning down, he wrapped both arms around her waist again and pulled her tightly against him once more. "Good, yeah?"  
  
"If we go by the last time, I suppose, yes." She smiled, rising on her tiptoes to kiss him.  
  
**—TWO MOONS BEFORE—**  
  
Guards, servants, knights, lords and ladies of the realm, workers of all sorts everywhere you looked doing their best to repair the Red Keep after the destruction wrought by Daenerys Targaryen, Arya passed them all. She ignored them all too. It didn't make a difference. Despite the rain that fell in heavy showers, each and every one of them, no matter their station, stepped out from the cover even for just a moment or two to get a glimpse of the Slayer of the Night King, the Bringer of the Dawn, and now that it was known, the Scourge of House Frey.  
  
She hated it. Arya hated the attention, their eyes gazing at her, assessing her. Many of the commonfolk did so in awe, a little in fear. Meanwhile, most of the nobleborn looked upon her in disbelief, scarcely able to consider that a young woman, and such "a tiny thing," she'd heard whispered more than once, could have possibly defeated the greatest threat to the realm, nay all of humanity. More likely it had been her bastard brother, Jon Snow, the Dragon Queen's great love, who had protected them all by killing her, saving the realm once again. That made a much better story, after all. The whispers that he was Rhaegar Targaryen's trueborn son just made the tale even more believable.  
  
The Savior of the Realm was happy to let them imagine what they wanted. Give Jon the credit, it was fine by her. _If not by him_ , she thought with a smirk, knowing that the only person who would hate all the titles and attention bestowed upon them even more than her was her brother. As his name and accompanying visage appeared in her mind, her lips turned downward. _Jon_ , her heart cried out. She had said goodbye to him yesterday. Or so she had thought. They all had. Until the ship that was taking him to White Harbor had been attacked less than ten miles out. Fortunately, no one had been killed; Jon was fine and back in his cell.  
  
She wanted to keep fighting about his stupid punishment, his exile to the Wall that had been destroyed and was pointless now. This recent attack had enraged her, but Bran had guards watching the Unsullied and Dothraki ships now and Jon would be leaving in a week's time. There would be another goodbye. And she wasn't allowed to fight for his freedom anymore. Arya had fought and screamed and gone so many rounds, but Jon wasn't even fighting and had finally told her to stop. He had begged her to. So she had to stop.  
  
Arya stopped and stood still. Looking upwards, she enjoyed the bitter sting of the raindrops on her face for a moment. She welcomed the tiny pricks of pain. It was better that than the pain of losing her brother all over again. Giving a quick shake of her head, she looked down and strode forward. He was alive, and so was she. As was Sansa and Bran. Bran. He was on the agenda today. She needed to talk to her brother, not as her brother or even the new king of Westeros, but as the Three-Eyed Raven.  
  
"Whatever the fuck a Three-Eyed Raven is," she murmured to herself, turning towards the great hall. Arya shook off her capelet as she walked past the guards. Water still dripped from her hair and clothes, but she didn't imagine that Bran would mind. She looked around. The throne room was serviceable. In barely a moon's time, they had gotten rid of the rubble, repainted the scorch marks, and had hanged a Stark banner behind the dais. She had heard from Gendry who had heard from the Onion Knight that there were plans to install a Weirwood Tree for Bran somewhere, somehow. She supposed Tyrion Lannister would figure that one out. Arya rolled her eyes. Tyrion Lannister, her good brother technically, she supposed as she was in the South and his marriage to Sansa was still valid here according to some. At least that is what Sansa had told her. Better him than that fucker, Ramsey Bolton.  
  
"Hello, Arya."  
  
Bran wasn't alone. His new manservant, Jessup, she had learned his name was, rolled him in. A mute, one of the many victims of fucking Joffrey. Gods, she wished that were one on her list she had been able to kill herself. A shame that it wasn't really Sansa who had played a part in his death after all. That at least would have brought her some satisfaction, a Stark doing the deed. Either way, Joffrey was dead for which all of Westeros should be happy.  
  
And here sat another king, a much better one. Her little brother. _And wasn't that a fucking kick in the arse._  
  
"Bran. Or should I say 'Your Grace?'" To be honest, Arya wasn't sure which she would prefer to call him. He was so unlike the brother she remembered, thinking of him as the current ruler of Westeros made as much sense as thinking of him as the little boy she used to frustrate because she was so much better at archery and swordplay.  
  
"I am your brother, Bran is my name and it's what you've always called me," he said in that near emotionless tone of his as if reading her thoughts. And then, _well, fuck me_ , she thought, he smirked. "When others are around beyond family and the Small Council, you must address me as 'Your Grace,' 'Your Highness, 'Your Majesty' or 'King Bran.'" An eyebrow raised. "Protector of the Realm' is acceptable as well."  
  
She laughed. "So you're still in there. My brother and the Three-Eyed Raven co-exist after all."  
  
"Tyrion does seem to believe so."  
  
"Does he? Maybe I shouldn't hate him after all." Arya sighed and walked towards him, sitting on the top step of the dais so that she was eye to eye with him. King or not, he was still her little brother, and Arya had never been one for rules.  
  
"No, I don't think you should hate him," Bran responded. "He's a decent man. He's made mistakes, but his heart is good. He cares for our sister. He was ever innocent of any crimes against me or anyone in our family. His only crimes were of being unloved by his own family and being hated for being a dwarf and rising above it. He has made mistakes because of those crimes, but not because he is an evil man."  
  
Arya was silent. She wanted to take his word for it, and she knew that he saw things that no one else did, but she also knew that seeing things wasn't the same as feeling, experiencing them for yourself. It didn't mean that Tyrion wasn't evil, but it didn't mean that he was a good man either. Still, if both Bran and Sansa spoke on his behalf, she would let it lie. Perhaps there was one decent Lannister in the world. It was of no matter to her here and now.  
  
"I'm not here to talk of Lannisters. I'm here about Gendry."  
  
Bran nodded.  
  
"He's giving up all that Daenerys Targaryen gave him to be with me. You found another of King Robert's bastards to take Storm's End, become Warden of the South and all of that." She took a deep breath, knowing that if she didn't like the answer that she was going to leave Gendry behind. It would break his heart, but it was for the best, for him. She met Bran's gaze, her own beseeching. "Is he a good man or are we going to come back to Westeros and find the Stormlands and its people suffering? If that happens, Bran, I can't do that to Gendry. He would blame himself. He would hate himself and be miserable with guilt."  
  
She rose to her feet, and looked around the throne room, noticing from this angle that there were banners from the other regions—the Westerlands, the Vale, the Reach, the Riverlands and the Stormlands. Arya turned back to face her brother, the king, the Three-Eyed Raven.  
  
"Gendry cares about doing the right thing. I know he said he'd give it all up for me, and it doesn't matter because he thinks he doesn't deserve it. He thinks a bastard like him doesn't know the first thing about ruling anyway, but Bran…" She moved back to the dais and knelt before him. "He's a good man. I know that with the right people by his side he would be a good lord, a great lord. He would do so good for his people." Arya rose to her feet and moved to stand before the Stormlands banner. "He could be as great a lord and warden as father." She looked back to Bran. "That's the kind of man that Gendry is."  
  
Returning to his side, she sat back down, and met his gaze. "So tell me about this new Baratheon heir."  
  
"He will rule well in time." Arya looked down in dismay. "Arya?" she looked back up. "He is young with his own difficult journey ahead. Regardless, he belongs in the Stormlands, and I can't tell you how Gendry would have been as Lord and Warden in his place because I can't tell you a future that won't happen. Just one that will. Edric Baratheon is a good man. He will do what is right by the Stormlands, and Gendry will do what is right in his own life. Arya, it is his choice to decide. It is not yours. Trust me when I say he is choosing the right path."  
  
Bran looked steadily at her. "It is a path that was set into motion years ago by father."  
  
Shaking her head, Arya's eyes widened in surprise. She found herself without words at first before finally she spoke plainly. "What do you mean? True, Gendry did meet father, but they spoke briefly, and he only asked about his mother. That's how father knew he was King Robert's bastard. Gendry told me about it long ago when we were still with the Night Watch recruits."  
  
Bran smiled. "You know our father. It's because he recognized that Gendry was Robert Baratheon's bastard that Gendry's path was set. Once Robert died, father was betrayed and arrested, he believed that it was likely that any threat to Joffrey's legitimacy would be eliminated. Lord Varys knew that our father was an honorable man and did what he could to help him while still keeping himself safe of course."  
  
"Of course," Arya murmured, her mind lost in the memories of those last few days. "I recognized his voice, you know, Lord Varys. When he came to Winterfell. I told Jon, but he told me what was in the past was past and we were fighting a greater battle, one for all of humanity. But I recognized his voice from the crypts under the Red Keep. He was one of the men plotting, talking about lions and wolves and dragons. I knew father was in danger, but I didn't understand it all, couldn't keep it straight in my head. I tried to tell him, but father didn't believe me. He thought I was making things up…" She trailed off, tears filling her eyes.  
  
Ever since Sandor had given her the gift of life, releasing her from the surety of death that would follow her execution of Cersei Lannister, emotions, and inevitably tears, had come much easier to her. It was fucking annoying.  
  
"He understood, Arya." Bran assured her. "He understood all too well, he just didn't want to worry you anymore than you already were. Varys wasn't a danger to father. At the end, he was the closest thing to a friend that our father had. That was something you couldn't have understood. You were a child, his child, and he wanted to protect you."  
  
Her eyes shut, a heavy breath escaping her as those damn tears streamed down her face. "Of course he did." Furiously, she wiped them away.  
  
"And he wanted to protect Gendry too. While he lay chained up in his cell in the Red Keep, he was not only thinking of how he could protect you and Sansa, but he also wanted to protect Robert's son, that innocent boy. So he asked Varys to reach out to Yoren—"  
  
"Oh," Arya sat up straighter. "It wasn't Tobho Mott selling him for no reason at all! Gendry did nothing wrong."  
  
"No, Yoren was supposed to bring not only you to Winterfell, but Gendry as well where he could be safe, free from Cersei and Joffrey's wrath. There he could finish his training as a blacksmith under Mikken's tutelage. Fate had different plans, and Gendry took the long road, but he was always meant to find his way to Winterfell and you. It was what father wanted."  
  
"The long road…" she murmured, thinking back to the night, *that* night. The night where she gave herself to Gendry. She had wanted to know what it was like, true, but really, she had wanted to know what it would be like with Gendry. When he had come to her with the weapon that he had crafted, he had said those words to her. "The last time you saw me, you wanted me to come to Winterfell, I took the long road," she repeated them softly to herself.  
  
And it was a long road indeed. The Red Wedding, the Red Woman, Sandor Clegane, Stannis Baratheon. He hid in plain sight back in King's Landing while she trained across the Narrow Sea in Braavos. She made a choice at the Crossroads Inn, and he made the choice to leave the Street of Steel. There were so many twists and turns that had led them both to Winterfell years later. To each other.  
  
They had lost each other once. She wouldn't let that happen again. Who knew what twists and turns could happen in the coming years, moons, days even? Arya wasn't going to waste a moment safeguarding their future. He was hers and she was his.  
  
She looked to her brother, the most powerful man in all of Westeros. He could get things done. "Bran, will your royal duties allow you freedom this afternoon?" He looked up at her and nodded. "And your Grandmaester? We'll need him." He nodded again. She grinned. "I have to say this whole brother being a king thing is nice."  
  
Walking to the window, Arya looked Northward and seemed to change the subject, but her mind was set and it was all of the same. "The Weirwood tree you sent for? That's in the royal wood, not too far North from here, yes?" Once more he nodded, a slight smile now curving his lips. Hurrying out of the room, she stopped suddenly. Arya turned back to Bran. "One more thing, Jon." She narrowed her eyes, a burst of anger suddenly filling her, and her tone reflected the same emotion. "I know, he's still a prisoner—"  
  
Bran looked at her. "Yes, he is a prisoner until it's time for him to leave," his tone showed a complete lack of emotion. _Fucker. You're my little brother, but still… fucker._. "Despite what happened. I have kept him here as long as I did because you and Sansa are still here. I wanted him to have as much time with his family as possible. Greyworm and the remaining Unsullied and Dothraki still want his head as made clear by the attack on his ship. They won't leave until Jon has been sent to the Wall—"  
  
"Yes, yes, I still don't think…" She trailed off as he remained absolutely stoic. Arya sighed. She wasn't going to argue this anymore. Remembering her promise to Jon, she instead thought of the decision she had made and held onto the one important thing that Bran had said. _Family._ She wanted to be only happy for the moment. No dark thoughts.  
  
"Right, family. Well, perhaps it was a blessing from the Old Gods and New that Jon's departure was delayed and that he's still here now. Today." Arya looked Bran square in the eye, wanting him to know she was serious. "I want Jon free for the afternoon. Can you manage that? Or are you worried that despite all your resources you might not be able to slip him past Greyworm and his band of Unsullied and Dothraki sulking in their ships or drinking and fucking themselves senseless?"  
  
"Arya—" The stoicism slipped just the slightest. Even the Three-Eyed Raven could be thwarted by the annoyance of an irritating sister.  
  
"I'm going to wed Gendry today. I want my brothers there. Both of my brothers."  
  
Bran and even Jessup looked to the windows where rain still poured from the skies. Bran looked back at her and just as he raised a brow, a thunderous clap cracked in the air.  
  
"I don't care. I'm getting married today." Arya stared expectantly at her brother. "Bran? Jon?"  
  
Casting another glance at the window, Bran sighed. Another crack of thunder and a flash of lightning followed. He looked at Arya. She hadn't moved. He nodded. "I'll have Tyrion make the arrangements—" He held up a hand before she could speak. "He won't be there. Just family."  
  
Arya slowly turned around and left the great hall. A smile lit her face. "I'm getting married today," she whispered to no one.  
  
**IT HAD LIGHTENED** up a bit so that one couldn't say it was raining heavily, but it was still raining. Gendry leaned against the window frame.  
  
"Can we not wait until tomorrow? Or the next day? Any day when it's not like this?" He held his hand out the window and when he brought it back in, it was wet. He laughed.  
  
Arya continued searching through the trunk that Sansa had sent her a fortnight ago upon finding out about her betrothal to Gendry. It might not be her usual style, but she was going to wear a gown for her wedding. She had looked through it the day it had arrived, but only casually as she and Gendry hadn't decided upon when they would wed. However, one particular dress had caught her eye. She only hoped that it would come close to fitting her.  
  
"Arya? Arya? Arry, are you listening to me?"  
  
Sitting back on her haunches, Arya looked up at him. "Yes, I'm listening. I understand that it's raining, but why does it matter? It's just water. It won't hurt us." She rose to her feet and crossed over to him. "Gendry, we're leaving soon. We have so much to do and I would rather concern myself with those details rather than when we're going to get married."  
  
He stepped back. "Oh, it's a concern now?" A flash of hurt darkened his face.  
  
"Don't do that. I don't mean it like that. I want to be married with my family present. I want Jon and Bran and Sansa there. You know that Greyworm hasn't left King's Landing, not him nor the Unsullied and Dothraki either. They're waiting until Jon leaves for the Wall. Until he's gone, they're a threat. So the longer that he stays here, the more dangerous it is. We need to get married sooner rather than later."  
  
Gendry nodded. Seeing that his feelings were soothed, she returned to the trunk and still looking for the preferred gown, continued explaining the rush to wed now.  
  
"And I don't want to get married during our journey. I want to be wed here in Westeros in front of a heart tree. I am a Northerner. Of course," she rolled her eyes, "since I *am* the princess of the Six Kingdoms too and you're a lord of the Southlands, we'll include the vows of the Seven in our ceremony."  
  
"Of course, my princess."  
  
"Shut up," She automatically replied as she dug deep amidst the fabric and looked up at her husband-to-be. "If rain falls down upon our union, I'll consider it a cleansing of the filth and blood of everything that has come before us."  
  
"Well, since rain *will* fall down upon our union as we're doing it today it's a good thing then."  
  
"Yes!" She cried out, glancing down and seeing the very dress that had captured her fancy when she had first seen the collection that Sansa had brought for her.  
  
"What?" Gendry stepped forward.  
  
Arya smiled, a beaming smile, and she realized that she absolutely loved feeling happy. She remembered what a happy child she had been growing up at Winterfell. There were so many days after her father's death when she truly believed that she would never know happiness again. Arya wanted this feeling to last.  
  
"I've found my wedding gown." She pulled it out, carefully holding it to her chest and turned from Gendry so he couldn't see it. She wanted to surprise him. He had only seen her in a dress once and that was when she was a girl still. They had stopped at Acorn Hall while with the Brotherhood Without Banners, Lady Smallwood had forced her to bathe and put her in a dress covered with acorns. Gendry had laughed so hard when he'd seen her that wine had come out of his nose. She didn't think he would laugh this time.  
  
Realizing she'd never answered his question, Arya looked past him to the rain which had begun to fall harder again, she couldn't help but laugh. "Yes, I think the rain is a good thing. Very good." Heading out, she threw him another radiant smile. Today she would become his wife. To think that when he had first asked her the idea had terrified her. Now, it filled her with joy. _I will be his_ , she thought. _He will be mine_.  
  
"I have to go talk to Sansa and Jon. You get something nice to wear." Opening the door, she stopped, thinking. "What about what you wore at the Dragonpit? I'd prefer to have a nice memory of you in that." Arya walked out and then remembered something else. She poked her head back in the room. "You should probably let Ser Davos know about the ceremony. It shouldn't be only my family there."  
  
She was off again, rushing down the hall towards her sister. So much to do, so little time.  
  
**THE RAIN WAS** coming down hard when she entered Jon's cell. His eyes lit up when he saw her and he rose to his feet, enveloping her in a big hug. She returned it with a smile.  
  
"Not that I'm not happy, but I did see you this morning. Why are you back so soon?" He asked.  
  
Arya turned to him. "I'm getting married."  
  
Raising a brow, Jon sat back down, a hint of confusion shading his features. "I know that."  
  
"I mean, today," Arya laughed, a giddy joy bubbling up within her. "Gendry and I are getting married today. This afternoon."  
  
Jon did look surprised then, and then disappointed. Arya rushed over to his cot and sat down beside him. She thought she knew why he was upset. Thinking back to what things were like in Winterfell when he found out about her and Gendry, how he found out, how she had acted, she wanted to explain.  
  
"Jon when you found out that I was with Gendry I was a right cunt about it. You have to understand it wasn't you. It was all of the fucked-up shit that I had gone through. I haven't told you about it and, really, I don't want to. "  
  
"Arya," he reached out and mussed her hair just like he had when she was a little girl, "don't worry about it. It's in the past."  
  
"I just want to tell you that you didn't change, Jon. Not you. I said that, but you were still the brother who was always my favorite."  
  
He smiled, and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as if imparting a secret. "You were always my favorite too."  
  
Arya laughed, but her laughter faded because she wanted, no, she needed to tell him some of her truth. "Jon, after father died, I kept losing people," she reached up and wiped a falling tear away. "So many people," and her voice that once she had been able to keep so steady and emotionless, shook with the ache of the losses. "I wanted people to pay for the wrong they did. I wanted vengeance and that became my only reason for living."  
  
"Arya," his voice was filled with sorrow. His heart was breaking for her, she could hear it in just the two syllables of her name and that broke her own heart just a bit.  
  
"I lived for death, Jon. Even after coming home to Winterfell and seeing my family, and Gendry," she shook her head. "It didn't matter. I still lived for death. But Sandor Clegane, he helped me see the light."  
  
"The Hound? You're talking about the Hound?" The shock in Jon's voice was as incredulous as the wide-eyed expression on his face.  
  
She nodded. "Yes. I went to King's Landing to kill Cersei Lannister. He went to kill his brother. Gregor Clegane had always been the only name on his list." Arya looked away, her mind cast back to that day, the Red Keep falling apart around them, Sandor speaking his truth, the love he did feel for her evident in every word. She turned back to Jon. "When we were there in the moment, revenge at hand, he told me to turn back. Said that he had lived his life for just this and look where it had got him, I shouldn't, he said, I couldn't do the same. I still had a chance to live. So I did it, Jon. I let it go. I walked away and I decided to live."  
  
Tears filled his eyes and he reached out, taking her face in his hands. "I'm happy to hear that. More happy than you can ever know." Jon pulled her into his arms, kissing the crown of her head. "I'm so happy," he whispered.  
  
Arya buried her head in the crook of his shoulder and allowed herself a good cry, a happy cry. Finally, she pulled away. "Damn tears," she said with a shaky laugh. "Ever since that moment, I keep finding reasons to cry. Such a stupid girl."  
  
He laughed and wiped at the tears on his face. "Then what am I?"  
  
"My brother. And that's why I'm here." She cleared her throat and rose to her feet. "As I said I'm getting married today. Bran had a Weirwood tree brought in from the North, so it's not Winterfell, but at least there's that. It's planted in the royal forest about a mile North of the Red Keep. That's where we'll have the ceremony."  
  
"Arya?" He got up and walked to the window. "It's raining. It's been raining all day. I don't think it's going to stop by this afternoon."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Doesn't matter to me, I suppose—"  
  
"No, it's my wedding," she interrupted.  
  
"I'll be safe and dry in here," he finished.  
  
"What?! No, you won't. You're coming to the wedding. I already asked Bran. Well, told him. He's the king, we'll sneak you out. I wanted to let you know and.." She trailed off when a huge smile broke out on his face. Arya placed her hands on her hips. "Jon Snow, did you actually think I was going to get married without you there?"  
  
"I did," he admitted bashfully. "That's why I was upset when you told me."  
  
Walking over, she punched him on the shoulder. "That's just stupid." She punched him again for good measure and he winced. "Someone will be down shortly with a bath and change of clothes." Arya paused. "Before I go, there was one other thing…"  
  
"What is it?" Jon peered out the window again. "It's raining really hard, Arya."  
  
"You could come with us." Her voice was quiet.  
  
He turned to look at her, his eyes wide. "Arya…" He shook his head.  
  
Rushing towards him, she grabbed his hands, her words coming out in a flood. "It would be easy. We could sail to White Harbor and meet you there, sneak you aboard the ship as one of the crew. No one would know. And you wouldn't be stuck up on a Wall that has no bloody use anymore. You would be free—"  
  
"No!" Jon pulled his hands loose and walked away, his shoulders stiff. "I can't."  
  
"Why not?" Arya cried out. "What is up there for you at a broken Wall?" She pulled at his arm and turned him to face her. "We've been separated for so many years, but now we can go on this grand adventure together. And you like Gendry. It could—"  
  
"I said 'no,' Arya." This time his voice was low, but just as firm.  
  
Closing her eyes, she squeezed them tight, determined not to cry. She succeeded and moved to his cot, sitting down. Her voice was calm. "Please tell me why not."  
  
"Because I'm a Northerner. I belong in the North." He said it so simply.  
  
She scoffed. "I'm a Northerner. Just because I'm going on a journey doesn't make me any less of a Northerner. I plan on coming back. And when we do, Greyworm and the others will be gone, and Bran can pardon you. Then you can actually be in our North, not beyond the Wall." He sighed, and she raised a brow. "I'm not an idiot. I know you're going beyond the Wall, not to the Night Watch. There is no fucking Night Watch anymore."  
  
"Ghost, and Tormund, the Freefolk are beyond the Wall." He ran a hand through his curls, now unbound like when he was younger and moved to sit beside her. "Arya, the North is in my blood. I can't leave. I don't want to. It's not that I don't want to spend more time with you, I'd just be too homesick. You've spent enough time away from the North that you can imagine life away, but I can't." He nudged her lightly with his shoulder. "It's not me."  
  
She laughed. "It's not you."  
  
"Tell me," he asked and Arya looked at him. "Why don't you and Gendry go North. If he doesn't care about being Lord of Storm's End and all that, why not go North? I know that it's as much in your blood as it's in mine. You've been away a long time and you've just come home, so why not go back now? I know it's not Sansa. You two are good."  
  
Arya sighed and stood up. She walked to the window and looked out. "Still raining."  
  
"Yeah, it's not going to stop. You're going to have a wet wedding." She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him, shrugging. He smiled back. "You could have it indoors."  
  
Leaning against the window frame, she shook her head. "Weirwood tree. I want to wed with the traditions of the Old Gods too. So outdoors, it is." She brushed her jerkin and then grinned. "I'm wearing a dress for my wedding. Gendry will call me beautiful."  
  
Jon's smile grew. "So will I. So would have father. And Lady Catelyn." His smile faded; his expression was solemn. "Why not go North?"  
  
"Because I'm not Arya Stark in the North. I wouldn't even be Arya Baratheon. I'm the Bringer of the Dawn. The Slayer of the Night King. The Scourge of House Frey. Now it's—"  
  
"Did you really do that? House Frey?" He stood up.  
  
She sighed. "Yes, and no, I'm not going to talk about it. Not now. Not today. There are all these titles, they're even saying I'm the Princess that was Promised which is ridiculous. I'm not. I was just trying to save Bran, to save all of us. To do my part."  
  
"And you did."  
  
"And so did you, and Sansa, and Bran, and Sandor and Beric Dondarrion and Gendry and, and…" She broke off and looked sadly at him. "And Daenerys Targaryen. And so many others, and a whole lot of them died, and yet, I'm the one who people are cheering for and giving these stupid, grand titles to and writing songs about that are being sung in taverns across all of Westeros. And it's absolutely the worst in the North." She shook her head. "I can't, Jon. I just can't."  
  
"What can't you do?" He asked, his voice soft and searching.  
  
"Live! I'm trying to figure out who I am if I don't expect to die every day. And I can't do that when everywhere I turn, I have people looking at me like I'm some kind of hero. I'm not. That's not me."  
  
Jon nodded and then asked the one question she wasn't ready to answer. "Who are you?"  
  
Smiling, Arya shook her head. "I don't know. Not yet, that's what I want to find out." She smiled, a wistful one, and then she took a deep breath. "I have to go back to Sansa now. I dropped my dress off earlier and she's working on it. But I promised I'd return shortly. I believe it's shortly now."  
  
Arya headed to the door. She stopped for a moment, considering her next words. She turned to look back at Jon. "Today at the ceremony, Jon, I know it's still hard. I know it hurts, but please, be nice to Sansa. She was doing what she thought was best for the North."  
  
Jon waited a beat and then offered a tight smile before nodding. "I know. I will."  
  
Opening the door, Arya paused once more and then ran back to give him another hug. "I'll see you soon, brother."  
  
**"LET'S TAKE A** little break before we put the finishing touches on your gown," Sansa said with a smile, as she rose to her feet. "I have something for you."  
  
Arya turned from the glass to look at her sister. Sighing, Sansa picked up a box from the bed. "Don't get too excited. When I began making this second one, I thought you would like to have more than one with your soon-to-be lord husband's colors even if you were at Winterfell, but now that you're going West, no one, not even Bran, knows what the weather will be like. So…"  
  
Stepping down from the stool, Arya still eagerly reached for the box. She headed to the bed and sat down with it.  
  
Sansa twisted her hands as she moved to her sister's side. "You may not need the first one, let alone a second." Arya pulled out the capelet that was the same style as what she had worn upon her return to Winterfell, that one in the colors of House Stark. This material, like the coat that Sansa had gifted her with shortly after she had learned of her betrothal, bore the Baratheon colors, black leather with golden fur. "You would have preferred something else?" Sansa asked.  
  
"No, I love it. I have such freedom of movement with this style, and the colors are beautiful." She stood up, holding the capelet in front of her and then ran over to the glass, pulling it on over her wedding gown. Spinning around, she grinned with delight. "Thank you, Sansa. Having more than one representing both my father and my husband is good."  
  
"I'm glad you feel that way." Releasing a quick breath of relief, Sansa smiled as she rose to pull it off Arya's frame and place it back in the box. Sighing, she gestured to the stool. "Alright, then, let's get to it. Your wedding is almost upon us, we have to get this dress finished. Back up on the stool."  
  
Arya did as she was told and Sansa knelt before her, needle and thread in hand. "This shouldn't take much more. I just have to take in the hem, and we're done."  
  
Twisting slightly in front of the glass, Arya inspected the seams on either side of the dress. She couldn't tell at all where her sister had sewn in the extra material, the stitches were so tiny and even. Heaving a sigh, she thought of Septa Mordane and how she had always praised Sansa's needlework and lamented Arya's. Seeing the handiwork right before her eyes, she could understand the Septa's approval.  
  
"Stop moving. I need you to stand perfectly straight while I finish this up. I know you don't care what you look like in general, but this is your wedding day." She lowered her voice, but Arya still heard her. "Why you've chosen today of all days, I have no idea."  
  
Rolling her eyes, Arya maintained her still form. "Why is everyone so afraid of a little rain?"  
  
Sansa sat back and looked up at her younger sister. "Because you want to wed before the heart tree. The heart tree that is outside. In the rain, Arya." She shook her head and then bent back down to finish the task at hand.  
  
"I want to get married today."  
  
"Why today? What's so special about today?"  
  
"Nothing. I just…" Arya trailed off, chewing on her lip. She looked ahead into the glass before her gazing into her reflection, thinking. It was true that she wanted to wed before they left Westeros. It was also true that she wanted to wed before Jon was sent away and that was going to happen sooner rather than later. And she had decided that she wanted to make things official between them now. But why today, why couldn't she wait until the skies cleared and the sun came out? It was a good question.  
  
"I'm afraid something might happen," she whispered. She spoke so quietly that Sansa didn't even hear her. The joy she had felt when she saw Gendry earlier felt like a dream. Of course it did. Happiness always did, fleeting and ephemeral. Ever since her father's head had come off that day at Baelor's Sept, nothing good had lasted. It had been a full moon now since she had agreed to become Gendry's wife, and it had been the longest period of contentment she had known since her childhood.  
  
Sansa rose to her feet. "Did you say something?" Before Arya could answer, her sister smiled as she looked her over. "You look lovely, very pretty."  
  
Turning to look at Sansa, Arya blinked a few times, trying to rid herself of the ridiculous tears that had begun to water in her eyes. "I'm afraid that something may happen. So I want to marry Gendry now. Today. I want him to be mine. Now." She laughed and wiped her face dry. "You and I both know that we can count on nothing to go as one plans. So today."  
  
"Oh, Arya!" Reaching out, Sansa moved closer and wrapped her in an embrace, holding onto her tightly. She pulled back and smiled at her. "Then a rainy wedding you shall have." Sansa stepped back once more and behind her, pointing to the glass. "Look at you. What a beautiful bride you'll be."  
  
Arya heeded her sister's command. She had let down her hair, brushing it more today than Arya had in the last week, pulling back strands on either side and pinning them atop her head with a small cluster of baby winter blue roses, leaving the rest to fall loosely. Her cheeks and lips were pink against the fairness of her skin, rosy with anticipation. Her eyes were bright, the grey shade looking more like blue thanks to her gown. It was a pale blue, almost like ice, several layers of gossamer silk created a swirling confection around her legs, while a heavier silk molded around her waist and bosom before the gossamer layers crisscrossed over her shoulders to fall away in long swathes of darker blue material floating behind her.  
  
Looking at herself like this, garbed as the beauties of Westeros often were, she was suddenly reminded of a conversation she had once had with her father many years before. He had told her that she reminded him of his sister, Lyanna Stark, that she even looked like Lyanna. It had startled Arya, she who had been bullied by her beautiful older sister and her friends, told often how ugly she was. It had startled her because, as she had pointed out to Ned, Lyanna was beautiful. Gendry's father had even gone to war over Lyanna. Ned hadn't dismissed his sister's beauty but had confirmed it. He had told Arya that Lyanna was indeed beautiful. "Beautiful and willful." Ned had also said of her aunt that she was, "dead before her time."  
  
"That won't be me," Arya said softly, she knew what to say to death. "Not today." She reached out a hand and lightly touched the glass, her fingers caressing the image of her face. "But today, today I am beautiful."  
  
"Yes, you are."  
  
Arya looked up and met Sansa's eyes in the mirror. "Thank you."  
  
**THEY STOOD IN** a wooded area before a heart tree near a churning lake, and where the sun peeked through the falling rain and upon the water, its color matched the pale blue of her gown. Over that, she wore a pale grey cloak, lined with ivory. Just as she had thought, when Gendry first saw her, there had been no laughter. His eyes had widened, his lips parted, his breath caught, and at the reverent adoration on his face as he gazed at her, Arya felt the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros, all of Planetos even. Gendry wore Baratheon black, Stark direwolf gashes struck against each shoulder, a heavy cloak, ebony fur with a golden lining, across his shoulders. Above them were high dark branches, the verdant leaves protecting them from the downpour, and beneath them was wet, green grass cushioning their movements.  
  
She missed her parents, her brothers who were no longer with her, even Sandor who she thought would have liked that she found happiness with that 'blacksmith cunt' after all, but that Gendry was hers and she was his was enough to bring joy to her heart. There were no flowers, no decorations, but the wooded landscape surrounding them was glorious even with water dripping from every leaf and branch, and article of clothing that every guest wore. Still, it was the perfect setting for the happiest day of her life.  
  
Sam nodded towards Jon and he stepped forward. He kissed the crown of Arya's head and gently removed the Stark cloak from her shoulders. She breathed a sigh as the cool rain fell upon her, refreshing and delightful. Then the coolness started to become more than cool but rather cold. And then Gendry removed his cloak and lay it upon her. Immediately she was enveloped in his warmth and the scent of him. Arya felt safe and protected; she felt loved. Arya looked into Gendry's eyes, their voices rising above the heavy rain.  
  
"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his, and he is mine from this day until the end of my days."  
  
As they pledged their vows, Jon's former brother of the Night Watch, Samwell Tarly, the new Grandmaester, stepped forward and joined their hands together with white ribbons. Arya smiled as the connection between them came closer and closer to completion. As one they turned to face Sam, his words naming her Gendry's wife. A burst of joy filled her and in the next moment she was in his arms; everything else faded away. It was just she and him. His palm cupping her cheek, his lips on hers, his soft breath caressing her face. _I am his_ , she thought. _He is mine_.  
  
A clap of thunder broke into her romantic reverie and they broke apart. She met his smiling gaze, and they turned to face their family. These people who loved them enough to stand in the pouring rain for this ceremony. Her brothers, Jon and Bran, her sister, Sansa, and Davos Seaworth, a man, like a father to Gendry, her husband. Arya beamed with happiness.  
  
Sam came up behind them, his voice raised to boom over the rain that was beginning to fall even harder now. "Your Graces, my lord, Jon, we stand here in the sight of gods and a lot of rain to witness the union of husband and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever." He waited a moment and then looked to Arya, "Lady Baratheon, I suggest *now* we go back inside."  
  
She stood still for just a few heartbeats longer, struck by the fact that she had just been called Lady Baratheon. Arya was on the verge of telling him not to call her 'Lady,' and giddy at the prospect that she had just been referred to as Gendry's wife. She decided this once to let it slide.  
  
"Yes, let's."  
  
**—ONE MOON LATER—**  
  
Arya Stark Baratheon stayed on the bow of the ship until Westeros was barely visible in the distance. Although she knew that Sansa, Jon, and practically everyone in Westeros who knew of her plans thought she was making a dreadful mistake, Arya was content with her decision. Had Gendry not joined her, she might have been having doubts, but he was here so, no, it was the right choice. West of Westeros was waiting to be explored. Something, someone was out there. And she knew that Bran wouldn't have given her his blessing if he didn't see a safe return on the horizon.  
  
"Milady?" Captain Tavier came up to her, hat in hand. She sighed. Yes, she would have to break him and the rest of the crew of that. She had no idea how long this voyage would last, and she wasn't going to be dealing with correcting courtesies the entire time.  
  
"Is it urgent, Captain?" She asked crisply.  
  
"No, Milady."  
  
"Good. Then, first things first. I'm not a lady. I wasn't raised as one, don't act like one, don't expect to be treated like one. And I certainly don't want to be called one. It's Arya."  
  
"But—"  
  
"No. It's just Arya. Tell the crew that. No Milady. No Lady Arya. Lady Stark. Lady Baratheon. It's just Arya. Trust me, I'm no better than any one of you. I can promise you that. Arya. I'm just Arya."  
  
He nodded. "Understood, Mi—Arya."  
  
She smiled. "Now, what was it you wanted?"  
  
"You wanted to meet the crew. Right now, we're getting things in order, but if you want to see how things are done—"  
  
"No, I don't want to get in the way. You come to me when it's a good time."  
  
"Thank you," he paused, and then, "Arya."  
  
The captain left and she looked back out to the ocean, taking a deep breath, inhaling the sea air. This was going to be good. She could feel it in her bones. A crewmember whose name she hadn't caught yet moved past her and almost knocked her overboard. He started to curse her, but then caught himself, blushing red and stammered an apology when he realized who she was. Arya waved him off and realized she was in the way while the crew was trying to do whatever they needed to do.  
  
Heading belowdecks, she stepped into her private cabin. Gendry lay sprawled naked on the bed, the sheets tangled around his hips and legs. He groaned and stretched, his arms rising above his head.  
  
"You missed the ship's departure." She told him tartly.  
  
He sent her a wolfish grin. "You wore me out. I was tired."  
  
"No, you had too much drink with Tyrion Lannister and Ser Podrick last night."  
  
"Was that it?" Gendry put his hand to his head and opened his eyes half-way, wincing at the light coming through the porthole. "Aye, that might have been it. Still, that was some dream then." He grinned at her.  
  
Arya removed her belt and carefully laid her dagger and sword down on the desk bolted to the floor. "Do you want to get dressed and come above deck now?" She removed her capelet and slipped off her boots. Untying the laces of her jerkin, she raised a brow in his direction. Even before she had begun the process of baring her body, she had known what his response was going to be. But it was a pleasure to watch the dawning realization come across his face that she was indeed choosing to lie with him. Eventually, Gendry would understand that she would always and only choose him, but for now it was still a wonder.  
  
He sat up and pushed the sheet onto the floor, rising to his knees. "I think I'd rather stay here and make that dream come true."  
  
Arya finished undressing and moved to the edge of the bed. She reached out and took him in hand; he was already starting to harden. "And what exactly happened in your dream?"  
  
He closed his eyes. "Yeah, something like that." She stroked him a few times and then leaned forward, placing one knee on the bed. Gendry groaned when she took him in her mouth, one hand on his hip, the other stroking harder with every pull as she sucked him deeper and deeper. "Arya, Arya, fuck." He thrust against her and she held on and then pulled away to catch her breath.  
  
"Lay down," she told him huskily.  
  
He did as he was told.  
  
Crawling onto the bed and over him, she knelt before him, taking his rock-hard cock into her mouth once more, she continued licking and sucking at his shaft while he moaned and cried her name, ready to burst. She sat up and stroked him up and down as she leaned over to kiss him, his hands tangling in her hair, he flipped her over and had her legs spread.  
  
"Yes, yes, Gendry. Fuck me."  
  
He rubbed his cock against her, but didn't enter, just teasing. She cried out as he palmed her breasts, his lips finding a pulse point in her throat and sucking before trailing up her neck to find her lips.  
  
"I love you," he whispered against her mouth.  
  
  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**  
  
Gendry hummed breathily against her lips, and her eyes opened.  
  
"Arya, I love you." He smiled down at her, his voice husky with emotion.  
  
She smiled back and reached up to kiss him, her mind still on that first day on the ship. Her lips parted, she slipped her tongue in his mouth and he responded, his passion matching hers. Arya pulled off his shirt and he lifted her up in his arms, carrying her back to the bed. In seconds, their clothes were thrown across the cabin and they were naked, his lips, his tongue, his teeth marking her skin.  
  
She reached between their bodies and grasped his cock, stroking fast and then slow, her thumb and forefinger dancing on the head just the way he liked. He jerked his hips against her, and she knew that he was getting closer. Arya brought his head to her tits; she also knew how much he loved to play with them. She was right, as she stroked him, he squeezed and fondled one breast, rubbing her nipple between his fingers, while he licked, kissed, and sucked the other.  
  
Her legs fell open and she raised her knees, echoing the same cry from a few moons ago, one that she had repeated so many times since. "Fuck me, Gendry. Fuck me, fuck me, Gods, fuck me now." He shifted slightly above her, and she slid his cock inside her and _fuck!_ , it felt so good. He felt so fucking good. His hand moved from her breast and down to her cunt, rubbing against her as he pushed in and out, harder and faster and…  
  
"Yes, yes! Fuck!"  
  
BOOM! Her back arched off the bed and Gendry exploded inside her, his seed filling her up, hot and sticky.  
  
BOOM! Her body went limp and Gendry rolled off her. He laughed weakly. "That wasn't us. That was thunder."  
  
Arya let out a heavy exhalation, feeling completely satiated. Lightning flashed outside the porthole. She could hear shouting from abovedeck.  
  
BOOM! She looked at Gendry, concern suddenly arising.  
  
BOOM! They both sat up.  
  
"That's not thunder!" Gendry cried out.  
  
Jumping up, they scrambled for clothes. Gendry had his pants on, Arya her pants and top when Davos burst in.  
  
"Time to stop lollygagging about you two! Pirates are attacking the ship!"

**—NEXT CHAPTER: THE MIGHTY WARRIOR—**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read the books, yup, I'm totes referencing the awesome Acorn Hall chapter!


	16. PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR - Chapter 15: Gendry II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry, Arya, and the _Nymeria_ crew battle pirates.
> 
>  **Characters** : Gendry Baratheon, Arya Stark, Davos Seaworth, Tavier Fyste, Carpen Wielldfoot  
>  **Relationships** : Arya/Gendry, Gendry & Davos
> 
> * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those 'fill in the blank' chapters... but for season 07. Bonus points if you know what I'm talking about!

** THE MIGHTY WARRIOR **

**THEY MET CHAOS** above deck. Davos led the way with Arya just behind him, sword, and dagger already in hand, bow and arrows slung over her shoulder. Gendry stood back, taking in the scene in front of him, hardly able to believe it. Thus far their journey had been entirely uneventful. Smooth sailing, warm winds, sunny skies, mapping out a few of the small, uninhabited islands they had found along the way without any issue. Even the crew had eventually accepted him, and Gilly had begun to come out of her shell.  
  
Until now, his life had been filled with nothing but trouble and shit, torture and fear, death around every corner, that taking to happiness and comfort in such a short time was a surprise, but it's what he had done. Taken to it with joy in his heart with Arya by his side. What a fool he was to think it could last. Nothing good ever lasted for a lowborn bastard like him.  
  
The rain had subsided slightly, but still it fell, and the deck was slippery with wet. Carpen was huddled with a couple of junior crewmembers. It looked like they were gathering weapons together to hand out. Meanwhile, Captain Fyste seemed to be everywhere at once, shouting out orders to a crewmember one moment and then a small group the next.  
  
Gendry cleared his head of his self-pitying thoughts. This was, after all, what he had expected of this journey west. Likely death at the hands of any number of things, including pirates. Well, here were the pirates. But it had been a risk he was willing to take to be with Arya. And if he died now, it was worth it.  
  
BOOM! Gendry nearly fell to his knees.  
  
"OK, that one definitely hit the ship!" Davos shouted over the noise.  
  
Arya threw a quick roll of her eyes Gendry's way. "Good thing, huh?" She turned to Davos before he could respond. "How many?"  
  
"They've fired off a few cannon shots, but that's only the second that's hit us. Not too bad, though." Davos threw them a look over his shoulder. "I'd be happy to say they have terrible aim."  
  
"Why don't you want to?" Gendry asked as he hefted his hammer, his eyes still scanning the crew's organized effort to deal with the threat.  
  
"Because I don't think they're trying to sink the _Nymeria_ , lad. They want to board her, and if they want to board her, it means they want to either capture and sell us, or worse, kill us, and take her for themselves." Davos sighed and looked around them. "She _is_ a beauty."  
  
Gendry felt a deep fear settle into the pit of his stomach. His fingers squeezed around the handle of his hammer. It was time to fight for their lives again. He looked to Arya, his love, his wife. He didn't want to lose her. Gendry smiled; she didn't look scared at all. There was a slight tilt to her lips, and her eyes had a vicious gleam to them as she focused on the pirate ship moving closer and closer towards them. Flipping the catspaw dagger that had killed the Night King in her hand with ease, Arya raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Let them come." That slight tilt curved into a smile. "Let them try."  
  
Captain Fyste ran up to them. "Arya, this ship is not built to withstand an attack like this…" He trailed off at the look on her face.  
  
"But you and your men can fight." It wasn't a question. Gendry knew that Arya hadn't chosen Tavier and his crew without first making sure of that. He knew his wife.  
  
"Of course." His answer was immediate, and Gendry could hear in his tone that he was insulted that she had even said it. Gendry knew that Arya heard it too.  
  
"I'm not asking, Captain. I know you can. They are _going_ to board us. We can't stop that. But we can stop them once they do. They have no idea who is on this ship."  
  
"The Bringer of the Dawn," Carpen said as he came up behind Tavier. Unlike his usual ebullient self, his voice was somber. "Let them come, Captain. We can fight them well enough, but more than that, we have Arya Stark herself. We'll destroy them. They don't know." He looked at Arya, the deepest veneration shining in his eyes, and bowed his head. "They don't know."  
  
Tavier shook his head. "I don't doubt you're a great fighter, milady." Gendry winced. _No,_ , he thought. _He truly didn't know of her skill._. "But these are pirates." He glanced over his shoulder and Gendry followed his gaze. The other ship was moving ever closer.  
  
"I've seen her fight, Captain." Davos captured Tavier's attention. "Single-handedly, in a span of no more than a minute, this young woman standing before you, took out roughly twenty men. Undead men, I might add." He reached out and clasped the captain's shoulder and looked down at Arya. "I'm with these two. Let them come."  
  
"And Gendry has his hammer." Arya pointed out.  
  
Davos, Tavier and Carpen all looked to Gendry and then down at his hammer. He hefted it slightly. They looked back up at him. "I'm not as good as she is." He smiled sheepishly. "Sorry."  
  
"That's OK, lad. None of us are," Davos assured him. Gendry threw Arya a look. She shrugged.  
  
Tavier cleared his throat. "Alright, then. The men are prepared to fight. That ship will be on us in a matter of minutes."  
  
Arya nodded. "Gendry and I will stay back until they board. Once the fighting starts, don't hold back. I won't."  
  
  
**ONCE THE SHIP** was close enough, the pirates jumped onto the deck of the _Nymeria_ , lassoed ropes and swung overboard, laid wooden planks across at various points to cross between ships, too many to push back for the crew. It was an overwhelming and coordinated onslaught. Within minutes, several of the brightly clad pirates were on the ship, cutlasses in hand. They had done this before. Many, many times.  
  
Two of the crew were slain by a dark-haired pirate moving quickly. Regen attacked him, but the brigand stepped to the side, his sword slicing the stocky sailor's leg from knee to ankle. He fell to the deck, blood spilling out, turning pink in the rain. About to take the killing blow, the pirate was shot down by the first of Arya's arrows. She and Gendry were perched right belowdecks. Arya had her sword and dagger sheathed, but her bow and arrow were in hand. She continued to take aim and one by one, brought down pirate after pirate, leaving the crew twelve less to fight. Once her quiver was empty, she looked to Gendry and nodded. "Let's go."  
  
They went. Soon, his hammer was slick with red, too thick for the rain to wash away. He wasn't as good as Arya, but he was the son of Robert Baratheon, a great warrior who knew how to wield a mighty war hammer and apparently that was in his blood.  
  
**—FIVE YEARS AGO—**  
  
The first thing he did when he returned to Flea Bottom was steal a knife. He felt guilty. Gendry had never stolen a thing in his life, but he didn't want to die. The last two years had taught him that, nearly dying on the King's Road, in Harrenhall and then on Dragonstone too many times to count. This bastard didn't want to die like all the others and his father too.  
  
His father. Robert Baratheon. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm of Westeros. There was a song that listed all the king's titles. That was the only reason that Gendry knew them. Otherwise, he would have only known his father as King Robert. Of course, he hadn't known him at all.  
  
_No_ , Gendry stopped himself. He wasn't ready to think about that. He hadn't thought about it when that Red Witch had told him on the ship. His eyes squeezed shut. Arya had been right about her. She hadn't liked her from the first. He'd heard Arya call her a witch, say that she was going to hurt him. Arya was right. Gendry shook his head. Arya was always right. She'd been right that night when she'd ask him to run away from the Brotherhood. Just the two of them, go and find her family. She didn't trust the Brotherhood, wanted to leave them far behind. He should have listened; Arya was the only one he could trust. She was right not to trust them. Gendry shouldn't have trusted them either. She was right about a lot of things.  
  
Well, mostly right. She could never be his family. He scratched his newly shorn head and winced. He'd cut too close to his scalp with that stolen knife in places, but he didn't want to be recognized and cutting his thick, black hair was the only thing he could think to do. His thick, black Baratheon hair. Just like his father. He let out a curse. Gendry couldn't keep the thought of Robert Baratheon from popping into his head. Just like Arya. They kept coming in and out, swirling in circles, and sometimes they even came together.  
  
Being in the forge all day and keeping to himself, Gendry had a lot of time to think. It hadn't taken long to find himself back on the Street of Steel. Smithing was all he knew. He couldn't return to his former master, Tobho Mott, but there were plenty of other blacksmiths looking for good help who wouldn't ask any questions. Neral Stout was one such. He had never made a name for himself, barely above mediocre and had never bothered with an apprentice, but he was getting on in years now and needed the help. It wasn't long before Gendry's skill had him doing the majority of work and there were more orders coming in than Master Stout had ever seen.  
  
Gendry picked up a pair of tongs and began working out a new piece of metal. And thinking, thinking the same thoughts that were always running through his mind, yet often finding new paths to take. Robert Baratheon. Arya Stark. The Brotherhood. Maybe Arya _was_ always right because just maybe they could have been family. Her mother might have recognized him. Her brother was a king. He could have legitimized him, given him a name. And not Waters, but Baratheon. Then maybe, someday he and Arya… _No,_ he stopped that train of thought before it could fully form. He didn't trust her enough. He trusted the Brotherhood and they betrayed him.  
  
Smashing the metal with a fierceness that near ruined the shield, Gendry let out an angry huff of breath. Before leaving King's Landing, there hadn't been much that had happened in his life, so his thoughts were occupied with everything that had happened after. Arya. The Brotherhood. His father. His uncle. The Red Witch. He stopped still, trying to find some calm.  
  
He didn't like to think about anything that had happened on Dragonstone.  
  
Whenever his mind strayed towards the Red Witch or even his uncle, his heart would race, he would find it difficult to breathe. Gendry would have to get out of the forge immediately, get some fresh air. As time went by, it became easier to just block any thought of either one of them as soon as they appeared. He'd just shut it down, his mind went black, a moment of dark fury taking hold. Gendry didn't even recognize himself in those seconds, but once he learned how to handle the rage, it didn't last long. A quick shake of his head, a few cleansing breaths and he was fine.  
  
Leaving aside thoughts of those brief days, it left many a long hour to think about his time with Arya and the stupid mistakes he'd made. He should have gone with her that night that she'd asked him. He imagined his whole life would be different. Hers too. She might be alive. He didn't want to think about that any more than he did the Red Witch or his uncle, but this he forced himself to because it was what he deserved.  
  
Gendry thought that Arya Stark might be dead. And he thought it might be his fault. If he had gone with her that night, it would have taken longer to get to her brother, so she wouldn't have made it to the Red Wedding. He thinks she did make it there. And knowing her, she ran headlong into save everyone. And he thinks that she was killed. Because he wasn't with her. He wasn't with her to try and help, to try and stop her, to try and save her.  
  
Or maybe she was killed on the way there. Or, and this was the other reason that Gendry allowed himself to think about Arya, maybe she was still alive. He hoped that she was, but he didn't think so. He went to the tavern at least once a fortnight and he would ask about what was going on outside of King's Landing. He always made sure to throw in the Stark name and see if there was any news. Arya's name never came up. Only her sister, and he didn't care about her.  
  
He also didn't care about Robert Baratheon. At least that's what he told himself. He was a stupid, fat, useless cunt of a king. Did nothing for no one but himself. Just drank and ate and fucked whores and any woman he took a liking to, including Gendry's mother, and then abandoned them. That's why he had bastards all over Westeros. Including Gendry. And that's why Gendry's life was in danger.  
  
Still… he found himself fascinated by the man in a way he never had been before. Robert Baratheon was no longer just the stupid, fat, useless cunt of a king. He was his father. And try as he might, Gendry kept thinking about him. Ned Stark was a good man. Arya had told him so and enough accounts from her childhood to make him believe it was true. And he had loved Robert Baratheon like a brother so there must have been some good in the man.  
  
Once he allowed himself that, Gendry pushed himself to remember the stories that older knights would tell of his exploits when they came to his old master's shop. Of how Robert took Gulltown, won three battles in a single day at Summerhall, and decisively defeated Prince Rhaegar on the Trident with his mighty warhammer. It was on that day that he brought the Targaryen dynasty to an end.  
  
_But_ , Gendry told himself, _I still don't care_. He's dead and nothing to me.  
  
  
**THE DAY THAT** Ser Ronard Rykker came in and ordered a warhammer changed Gendry's life. A year had passed quickly, and he had finally stopped looking over his shoulder. Master Stout barely came in and when he did, it was to criticize Gendry's work when no one was there and take credit for the praise when orders were picked up.  
  
Instead of feeling anger or even frustration, Gendry found that he simply didn't care. This wasn't going to be his life. He knew that. He was waiting for something to happen. What it was he didn't know. But when it did, when it walked into the shop, he would, and he would be ready.  
  
Gendry had never forged a hammer before. Many other types of weapons, but never a warhammer. He knew of them, of course. After all, his father was known for his. He'd even named his warship _King Robert's Hammer_ , and it was the largest one in the royal fleet to this day. There wasn't much call for the warhammer, though. Swords, daggers, knives, those were the weapons that people wanted, highborn and commoners alike.  
  
Money was money, though, and Ser Ronard was paying a pretty coin for this weapon. Gendry worked day and night, falling more and more in love with the hammer as he crafted it with attention to detail, heft and design. Without even realizing it, he had stopped making the dimensions to fit Ronard, a large man with little muscle, but rather to what felt comfortable to him. The feel of the handle fit perfectly in his own hand, the bulk and weight just the right balance as he swung it in the air.  
  
A sword had never felt right in his hand. He'd been awkward, slashing at the air and feeling the fool, but this felt true. For the first time, Gendry understood how Arya had loved her sword so, Needle had been its name, he remembered. _I should name this_ , he thought. And then had a sudden moment of heartbreak. The hammer wasn't his. It belonged to Ser Ronard. Gendry resolved in that moment to never name a weapon lest it be taken away. He recalled how broken up Arya had been when her Needle had been lost to her.  
  
"Can't be hurt over something you don't love," he said to himself as he placed the completed warhammer down, determined not to pick it up again. It wasn't his.  
  
It turned out not to be Ser Ronard's either. To Gendry's relief, the knight didn't even pick the weapon up. He didn't like the look of it and walked out refusing to pay for all of Gendry's time and hard work. Considering that all of Gendry's time and hard work had been spent on making the weapon for himself, Gendry didn't mind.  
  
Happy to break his vow, he picked the warhammer up again, that feeling of something _more_ spiking within him once more. He looked to the entrance and waited. Then laughed at himself. No one was standing there. Nothing happened. But it would. Something would. This was not going to be his life. Turning around, he headed to the back room and laid _his_ warhammer on his cot.  
  
Gendry rummaged around and packed himself a bag. When the time came, he would be ready to go in an instant. In the meantime, he would train. He would learn how to use his warhammer and fight like his father did. He may have been a fat, stupid king, and a useless cunt of a father, but he was a mighty warrior.  
  
And someday, Gendry could be too.  
  
**—IN THE PRESENT—**  
  
Blood dripped from the edge of his hammer as he bashed in the chest of another pirate. Now they were in disarray. The coordinated onslaught of earlier had fallen apart. Everywhere he looked, the pirates were fighting for their lives. Splashes of bright clothing and plumes drenched in blood and dripping wet as the rain continued to fall littered the deck of the _Nymeria_.  
  
Arya launched herself from the railing, her dagger in one hand, Flower in the other. With one quick move, she slashed the neck of a pale-skinned pirate, his scarlet tricorne falling to reveal jet black hair plastered to his head. As he reached for his throat, gurgling as blood dripped down his vivid blue shirt, Arya was already piercing the chest of another pirate, her sword plunging deep into his heart. A plume of blood spurted from the brilliant yellow jacket he wore. As if planned, they both fell to their knees at the same time and then thudded over, dead.  
  
Without a backwards glance, Arya had already moved on, her sword and dagger flashing through the remainder of pirates. Gendry turned away and saw one of their crew spread across the ship's wheel, his guts spilled out, and one ear cut off. Feeling equal parts rage and sickness fill him, Gendry looked around for any more of the fuckers.  
  
He turned and was just in time to take out the legs of a dusky-skinned man about to stab Carpen through the back. Gendry stared down at the screaming pirate and around his neck was a string of dried ears. With a roar, Gendry swung his hammer high and brought it down, bashing his head in. He stood heaving while the red cleared from his mind just as the rain, coming down harder once again, cleared the brains.  
  
The adrenaline was gone, and in its place came guilt and horror at what he had done. Gendry forced himself to look at the man he had just brutally killed. He could still see the string of human ears, and even the fresh one sticking out of his pocket that had belonged to their poor crew member. But two wrongs didn't make a right. He wiped his face, rain or tears making it wet, he didn't know. His guilt didn't erase what he'd just done.  
  
"He was going to kill me. He killed Tadd, cut him open sternum to gut while he was still alive. Took his ear as a trophy. While he was screaming." Carpen's voice was low. He was standing close to Gendry, trying to offer him reassurance that he wasn't evil like the man with no head anymore at his feet.  
  
Gendry looked at him. "Thanks, but—"  
  
"No buts. That's your weapon. You used it. They attacked us. You protected your wife, your ship, your crew." Carpen put a hand on his shoulder. "You've done no wrong here."  
  
A cheer went up. Gendry and Carpen turned to the crowd gathered at the center of the ship. A small group of them broke off and headed to the side. There was a loud splash. Another cheer rose. Arya came running over to Gendry and slung an arm around his neck. She held her sword loosely at her side. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed him passionately before pulling away with a fierce smile.  
  
"That was the last one. Dead." She looked down at the man that Gendry had killed. "Obviously, we have to throw all of the bodies overboard, but they're all dead." He couldn't return her smile. "What?"  
  
Carpen shrugged. "He's not a Northerner. Having a tough time with bashing this one's head in."  
  
Sheathing Flower, she pushed her wet hair back behind her ears and took Gendry's face in her hands. "They attacked us. We were protecting each other. Our ship. Our crew." Gendry smiled and looked over her head at Carpen. "What?" She asked, confusion clear on her face.  
  
"That's what he said." He pointed at the first mate.  
  
"Well, he was right."  
  
Carpen grinned, pride beaming on his face. He was about to respond but fell silent as Tavier and Davos joined them. "Sorry," the captain interrupted, "but we do need to take care of our wounded and dead, dispose of the pirates, and check on damages and repairs." He took off his hat and scratched his head. "There's also that passage of rocks ahead. It's coming right up. After that we'll assess the full damage."  
  
The crew all worked together to throw the pirates overboard. Their dead, they wrapped in cloth for a later burial. Patching up their wounded as best and as quickly as they could, Gendry kept an eye on the rock passage as it loomed ever closer. Rising at least twenty feet into the sky at its highest peak and covering an expanse of fifty miles, they had known it was coming up, but had not anticipated sailing through it with any damage. The pirate ship, unmanned after their crew had been forced to send all to try and defeat the _Nymeria_ , had drifted into the looming sea stack. It would not be above water for much longer.  
  
As they came upon the first opening, it was all hands-on deck, even Arya and Gendry. He smiled at her, knowing how much she had wanted to be aboveboard when they navigated through this. The excitement on her face helped to clear some of the heaviness he was still feeling. With each careful and successful maneuver, despite the sharp edges and corners, their fallen comrades and the rain still lashing down upon them, the mood lightened amongst the entire crew.  
  
The ship held together well and as they neared the end of it, they all seemed to simultaneously breathe a sigh of relief. There were only a few more turns to go before it was clear sailing once again.  
  
They hoped.  
  
Tavier joined Arya, Gendry, Carpen, and Davos at the railing. Carpen was on watch for the end of the rock passage, the other three were keeping him company even if it meant standing in the rain. "Arya, a moment of your time," Tavier said. "I wanted to say I'm sorry for doubting you. You are every bit the warrior that Carpen and Davos praised you to be."  
  
Smiling, Arya nodded, "it's fine." She leaned against Gendry. "And don't forget, Gendry had his hammer."  
  
Carpen grinned. "Yes, Gendry and his hammer." He reached out and clapped Gendry on the back. "You're a mighty warrior."  
  
If he blushed at the compliment, no one would see it in the rain, but he was happy to hear it.  
  
Davos held out a hand, capturing a bit of that rain in it. "We've bemoaned it for three days straight, but you have to admit, this rain is a good thing. It will make cleaning the deck a sight easier."  
  
"A good thing, yes. Don't you agree, Arry?" Gendry looked down at Arya.  
  
She gave him a sideways glance and rolled her eyes. "Mmhmm, a good thing."  
  
Grinning, Gendry bent down and gave her a quick kiss. Looking up, he breathed a sigh of relief as they cleared the rock passage.  
  
"LAND AHOY!"  
  
He looked ahead, expecting to see another tiny island the likes of which they'd seen a handful of times on the voyage so far.  
  
"Fuck me!" Arya whispered beside him.  
  
"Fuck us all," Davos said. "We did it." He looked at the captain. "Did we do it?"  
  
It wasn't tiny. It was a land mass. As far as the eye could see.  
  
"Maybe it's Essos," Gendry said. "Maybe we've just gone—"  
  
"That's not Essos," Arya said with a laugh, shaking her head.  
  
"No." Davos agreed.  
  
Captain Fyste threw his hat in the air. "We've just discovered a new country!"  
  
  
END PART I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end of PART I, THE SEEDS OF WAR. I hope you've all enjoyed the introduction to my _Game of Thrones_ sequel. 
> 
> What we will see in the next part — EVERYWHERE YOU TURN A CROWN ...
> 
> \- 15 chapters.  
> \- What is West of Westeros.  
> \- The seeds of war beginning to bloom.  
> \- Bran getting more answers to his visions of the Lannisters, Targaryens and Starks before the Age of Heroes.  
> \- Our various players beginning to question and find themselves in peace... even as war threatens once more.  
> \- More sexytiems! More pirates! More scheming!
> 
> As I wrote when I posted the prologue: 
> 
> After each part is posted, I'm going to take a month break while I tweak the next part. During that period, I welcome all suggestions, ideas. The outline of the entire story is done, however, minor alterations, scenes between characters, interactions, scenarios can be incorporated. While tweaking, I can possibly add any suggestions from readers that could work. (I've already had two great suggestions -- one involving Daenerys, another Tyrion, that I'm including.)
> 
> I HOPE to hold to that and begin posting the second part the 2nd week of March. I can't promise that because I'm only on the 4th chapter of Part II. (Migraines have been kicking my behind this week!) I'm hoping to finish though and stay on schedule. If you don't see chapter 16 in a month it's because I haven't met my timeline. However, I am steadily working on it and I am determined that if I don't make that timeline, it will be out by the following month. I ain't no GRRM.
> 
> ETA: Or not. I'll probably take my time writing the chapters. There clearly is NOT that much interest in this. I am going to continue writing it, but I'm not going to force myself to write 2-4 chapters a week to meet a self-imposed deadline when there is clearly no demand like at all for this story. Ah well. I'll just keep plodding along, a chapter or two a week, and start posting Part II in 2-3 months.


End file.
